On the Streets of Paris
by KaizokuShojo
Summary: Sequel to Brother. Holmes receives a case from Paris, but what he and Watson find when they arrive is hardly welcome--an old enemy is free, and has a bloodthirsty vendetta against the duo of Baker Street.
1. A Case

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Do you know what this is? **

**This…is the sequel to _Brother_!**** Brother took place in about January, if I'm not mistaken, and this will take place in…probably April. And, like Brother (though I don't think I mentioned it) it is pre-hiatus. You might not want to expect quite as many frequent updates as the last fic...I may or may not give them. XD**

**Also, keep your eyes on my profile page. There I will periodically post links to illustrations of my fics. One is already up. (The one up isn't really an illustration...more of a sketch. But, it's coloured now!)**

**Enjoy!**

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Only a very few times in my life with Sherlock Holmes did I get the opportunity to travel abroad on those important international cases, and in the middle of the spring of one year I was able to do just that. The affair was a tangled one, but the events surrounding it are of such singular interest, and are so connected with another case of his that I have written, that I knew I must give an account of it.

It was early in the morning, and Holmes had just spent all night in one of his chemical investigations. When I awoke he was already seated at breakfast, not looking at all as if his night had just been spent in such a malodorous—and, if I might add, highly flammable—task.

"Good morning, Watson," said he. "Did you sleep well?"

"Well enough," I replied, deciding not to mention the minor explosion and shouting of the night that had very nearly made me fall out of my bed.

I looked over and saw the mess surrounding the deal table where he worked his experiments—it was strewn with papers, notes, and a few books beside the table's normal objects. I picked up a phial and placed it back onto the table so that it would not be accidentally stepped on.

"Did you discover what you needed to know?" I asked.

Holmes was absorbed in the paper, absent-mindedly eating his breakfast.

"What? oh, yes." He replied. He pointed with his egg-spoon at a section of the agony column. "I do believe this 'R.H.' fellow is trying to extort money from someone." he said, seemingly more to himself than to me.

I took my seat opposite him and poured myself a cup of coffee, beginning on the breakfast that our landlady had provided. Holmes tossed the paper over onto the settee and turned his attention to the various letters that were stacked upon our table beside him.

He shuffled through them, looking as he always did for the most interesting ones first and tossing the others aside to either be burned or looked at later. I noted the ones he flung to the side—not too infrequently they were for me. Most of them to-day were circulars, and one that he tossed aside with a snort of disgust was an invitation to a nobleman's dinner party. Finally, the only one remaining in his hand was a simple letter.

Holmes looked at it for a moment, turning it over in his hands, and then opened it.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked curiously. Letters almost always meant cases, for neither of us had any real correspondents.

"It is a case," he replied thoughtfully, reading it. "It is from a Frenchwoman…she has apparently lost her husband…" his voice trailed off as he examined it.

Then suddenly he sprang up, going over to a table and taking up our Bradshaw. He looked up at me, and I saw a glimmer in his grey eyes, despite his calm face.

"Pack your things, Watson. We mustn't be late for the train." he said.

"The train?" I asked. "Where are we going?"

"To France," he replied, going to his room. "I hear it is lovely this time of year."

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**KS: Thanks for reading! Please, don't forget or neglect to review! I know there are plenty of you that liked Brother, so keep me fueled with those reviews!**


	2. Train to the Boat

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter two of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**¸ the sequel to **_**Brother.**_

**I must warn you, that while I have a decent knowledge of various Victorian information, I am lost when it comes to train schedules, travel times, boat travel times and schedules, some streets…etc. So, if any part relating to those things and such is vague, then you know why. XD**

**BUT, either to-morrow or soon, I'm going to go to a nearby library and photocopy a few things from books to perhaps help with both that and the upcoming knowledge I need to have of France. Each copy is going to cost me a dime...and I need several pages...xDD**

**Enjoy!**

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Holmes and I quickly packed and set off in a hansom for the station. We arrived, bought our tickets, and boarded the train just before it departed.

"We cut it rather close, didn't we?" I said. "Now will you tell me of the case?"

Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter, unfolding it and handing it to me.

"It may present enough interest to make up for the pitiful state of crime in the past few weeks." He said.

I took the letter and noticed that, thankfully, it was in English. This is how the letter read:—

"Dear Mr. Holmes,

Six days ago, on April the first, my husband and I went out to enjoy the fine spring weather. When we were preparing to eat our packed luncheon, I turned to get our food from the basket we had brought, but when I turned back around, my husband was gone! _Please_, Mr. Holmes, help me. The police think that he ran away, but I cannot believe it. I know it cannot be so. We have been happily married for three years, and I know him too well. You _must_ come and find my husband!

--Madame Marie Bourgeois"

"A missing husband!" said I. "I expect you've formed no theories yet?"

"Naturally." said Holmes. "I have absolutely nothing to go on yet. This case could go in a hundred different directions, and I need data to set me upon the proper one. Hopefully, we are not wasting our time."

I noted the eager and hopeful tone in my companion's voice. He had been in a period of not just stagnation these past few weeks, but he had been enduring the almost incessant pleas from people submitting cases so simple that even _I_ could probably solve them. It was the result of my writings, of course, that people were inclined now to come to him rather than the police, especially for smaller matters. Holmes had made it all too clear to me that I would need to re-emphasise the important factor of _interest_ when he took cases.

His grey eyes shone as he leaned forward and looked out the window, rubbing his long, thin hands together, impatient for the data he craved.

"What have you deduced about the woman from the letter?" I asked.

"That she is a woman of some wealth is easy enough to see from the quality of the paper," he replied. "She is educated, but I would not venture to say that she is very well educated. Her English is quite good, and she is _very_ worried for her husband, and distrusts the opinion the police have formed—which seems prudent, for most men would have planned their 'escapes' for a better time."

"You stress that she is '_very_' worried. The tone of the letter is troubled, but how do you deduce—"

Holmes held up his hand to stop me, indicating the letter.

"You see that her penmanship is immaculate at the beginning, but here, where she begins her plea," he gestured to the writing, "it becomes chaotic, with more than one ink blot. Her state of distress is clearly shown."

Holmes looked out of the window again.

"It has been a while since I was last in France."

I could tell by the tone of his voice that he wished to leave the subject of the case alone until he had more data.

"How is Mycroft doing?" I asked. I had not heard Holmes speak of his brother in nearly a month, but I knew that he still had been visiting him at home.

"Mycroft is doing very well, now that he is back to his Diogenes club and routine. He still coughs a little, and he says that it's impossible for him to do anything without losing his breath, but I don't believe he's ever been able to do much without losing his breath."

I laughed at his straight-faced joke about his brother.

"Good," I said. "I'm very glad that he's fully recovered."

"So am I," Holmes said, pulling out his cigarette case and offering me one.

It was quiet for a moment, the noise of the train as it sped along the tracks in the background seeming to intensify the silence, which was only broken when Holmes struck a match.

"Holmes…?" I started carefully.

"Mm?" Holmes muttered, looking up at me as he took a long draught from his cigarette.

"…This is a non-smoking car, isn't it?"

"...Yes, yes it is. Very astute of you to observe that, Watson." he said, exhaling the smoke.

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**KS: Heh, he's smoking in a non-smoking car again...just a little nod to the train scene in _Brother_, which was a nod to the scene in the Granada series' version of GREE.**

**Also, are there any of you on Holmesian -dot- net? I'm Kai (underscore) Sherlockian there.**

**I'm sorry for the shortness and choppyness of the chapter, and I'm sorry it wasn't up sooner. (I'm colouring a S.H. comic in PhotoShop, which is tedious work without a tablet...so I'm distracted. XD) It'll get better, I assure you. Review, please!**


	3. Of Boats, Pirates, and Deductions

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter three of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**¸ the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. Again, I must say that I don't know nearly enough about trains/boats, and their schedules. And I don't really feel like focusing too much on it. I'm pretty stressed right now…XD**

**So things will be made up, a little bit will be researched (I DID obtain two small maps to-day, one not so detailed of London, and a bit more detailed of Paris.). If you notice anything you KNOW is wrong, feel free to tell me. I'll try to fix it.**

**And I apologise in advance for the quick-fire style of the chapters...I'm rather scattered lately.**

**Enjoy.**

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In the time it took for us to reach the station, Sherlock Holmes and I conversed on any subject that struck him, from violins to the deductions that could be made from observing the way a man packed his luggage. When we arrived and the train rolled to a stop we disembarked quickly, Holmes's eagerness to begin the case quite contagious.

"We must hurry, Watson!" he said as he sped up to nearly a run, pulling out his watch and glancing at it. "We must not be late for the boat!"

I forced myself to keep pace with him. We were, indeed, cutting it rather close. The boat would leave soon, and we still had to purchase our tickets. Holmes whistled shrilly, hailing a cab, and barely before I was in he called out our destination, promising a half-sovereign if we hurried, and the cab sped off.

I saw his enthused, shining face again, and smiled.

"You're quite ready to begin, aren't you?" I said with a chuckle.

His keen face turned upon me, hardening into that cold mask I had become so familiar with as grey eyes searched me over.

"I am ready to be in action again, Watson." he said. He turned and looked out at the street as we raced along, his face sobering just a bit further. "But I cannot be too eager, or I might miss something important."

He stared out the window a little longer, then turned to face me with a smile in his eyes.

"But, even if we find quite the case we are looking for, we always can have a slight holiday in Paris."

I was a little surprised at my companion's remarks. He seldom took any sort of holiday, or wanted to venture anywhere for anything else but the sake of work, but I remembered that he had told me once that his grandmother was French, and so I thought that perhaps he had relatives still living there, or maybe he had been there as a child on holiday and had fond memories of the place.

When I began to ask him, I noticed he was again staring out the window, lost in thought, so I kept my question to myself.

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My constitution was not especially suited to sea travel.

We had arrived in good time to purchase tickets and board the ship that would take us across the Channel to France, and now I was settled comfortably in a chair, reading to pass the time and take my mind off the slightly rocking ship.

It was a pirate novel, a new one I had bought, and with the swaying of the ship and the sea air, I quite felt as if I were really there. I was getting to the part where the kidnapped man was creeping about on the deck in the full moonlight, preparing to attempt his escape from the supposedly haunted ship on one of the lifeboats, when a bony hand grasped my shoulder firmly.

I sat up with a start, gasping, and I turned quickly to see the pale face of…Sherlock Holmes.

My face must have betrayed my surprise and embarrassment. Holmes's face was highly inquisitive, but as his keen eyes caught my book and my features, he must have deduced what had happened, and a smile spread across his thin face.

"Watson, I knew you were the romantic type, but I had no idea you read _this_ sort of drivel…" he said jestingly, leaning over to see the novel I was half trying to hide.

"It is merely something to pass the time," said I, undoubtedly a bit flushed in the face. "At least I'm not reading that cheap love story you saw that passenger with earlier."

Holmes laughed.

"Indeed." he said. He rubbed his long, thin hands together absentmindedly, looking to his left, then back to me. "I just came to see if you wanted to play a little game with me, to pass the time as you said."

"Game?" I asked dubiously. "What sort of game?"

Holmes's face was as placid as usual, but his eyes shone mischievously.

"Oh, a simple one. Do you see that man over there? The grey-headed gentleman?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied. "What of him?"

"What can you deduce from him?"

I frowned slightly. I should have known this is what he meant.

"Holmes, I can't—"

"Why not?" Holmes said, his face falling slightly.

"I haven't the abilities that you have, Holmes."

"Oh, but it's simple. You can see everything that I do. You just do not reason from what you see. You're too timid in drawing your inferences."

I sighed.

"Very well, then." I said. "He is…obviously middle-aged. He is a…" I looked up at Holmes's face, and he nodded for me to continue. "doctor, perhaps. And he is travelling to see family?"

"And how do you deduce that?"

"Well, he seems of the medical type. And possibly in a good practice, too, for he seems well-off. And as for the family, I would think it likely by his light but dampened demeanour--he's not going for just pure holiday itself."

Sherlock Holmes shook his head.

"I am sorry, Watson, but you were completely wrong. This man is a lawyer, has just been quite sick, has been married twice, has spent some time in a tropical region, and is travelling for his health, not to see family."

Once again, I was baffled by his deductions.

I sighed as he begun to explain how he had reached his conclusions, feeling just a little seasick, and watched as he pointed out features of interest on the other nearby passengers. I hoped this trip would not take much longer, or I would need to go to the railing.

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**KS: I'm sorry that it's so quick-fire and scattered, but everyone wants me doing things other than I'd like to be doing, and I'm on the run all the time. I've very little time to draw or write recently...or else we'd be much further into this story. It'll get better, trust me. **

**...I think I need fellow Sherlockians to discuss my fics with. XD (I used to write One Piece fics, and I had MSN people to talk to about them. But now I'm alone. 83)**

**Please, review! And thanks for reading!**


	4. Madame Bourgeois

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter four of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**¸ the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I actually did a little research with Google, so it seems a little more accurate! But I still don't know train/travel times…so ignore time in a way. **

**I hate doing travel scenes.**

**And as a note…I don't speak French. I can understand a little if I see it, but I can't speak it. 83**

**But I DID attempt it in two tiny places. For the English-speaking French people in the fic, I tried to have a certain slight difference with their English. **

**Enjoy.**

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Sherlock Holmes's game proved to be a better distraction than I had first thought, and very soon we landed at Calais. We purchased our tickets and waited for the next train to depart, which was thankfully only a short while. We rode on to Boulogne, where we stopped to have a quick luncheon of a few sandwiches, and continued on another train to Paris.

It was fairly late in the afternoon when we arrived, and we took time to find a hotel to stow our few packed possessions before setting off in a cab for the lady's home.

"I do hope she is not one of those witnesses who, after the distress, are impossible to draw information from." said Holmes as he fingered impatiently at the handle of his walking stick, watching the Parisian world go by from our vantage point in the cab.

"But she has lost her husband, Holmes," said I, "You must be sympathetic with her for that."

"Oh, no doubt," said Holmes, "But you speak as if he is dead."

"Don't you think he could be?"

"Of course he _could_ be. But we do not know that for sure, and we mustn't be biased. Besides, I think it very unlikely."

Nothing else was said until we reached the house, where Holmes quickly paid the cabby and alighted with a spring.

"Come, Watson!" he called, and I got out and followed as quickly as I could.

Holmes went up to the door of the fancy Parisian city house and rang the bell, and the door soon was opened by a stern-faced servant.

"Oui?" he said, looking us over with an inquisitive eye.

"Mon nom est Sherlock Holmes," said my friend.

"Ah, very good, sir," said the servant, his voice thickly accented, "Madame Bourgeois is expecting you."

He opened the door wider and ushered us in, taking our hats and gloves and setting them upon the stand.

"Follow me, M. Holmes, Dr. Watson."

Holmes and I followed the austere servant to the drawing-room, where he told us to wait while he went to go fetch the lady of the house. As we waited, Holmes busied himself with examining the room thoroughly by sight, his keen grey eyes flitting searchingly across the lavishly decorated room.

"There's money in this case, if nothing else, eh, Holmes?" I said jestingly.

Holmes glared at me, but he knew I was only joking. A moment later the servant re-entered with the lady.

"Madame Bourgeois." he introduced, leaving the room after.

Madame Bourgeois was certainly not quite what I had expected. I had thought she would be one of those somewhat thickset, slightly older, haughty aristocratic types one so often saw, the kind that acted as if everything was quite beneath them—including sense, as Holmes might say.

She was instead a fine, young, delicate woman, obviously of good upbringing. A glint to her eye and set to her features told me that she was no fool.

"Madame Bourgeois," Holmes said, stepping up to her with that fantastic genteel, soothing air I have had occasion to mention before as he saw the distress on the lady's face.

"Oh, Monsieur Holmes, I am so very glad—no, relieved!—that you could come! When the police started saying that my husband ran away…!! Oh, Monsieur, they have nearly stopped looking for him entirely!"

"Madame, calm down, please. I shall find your husband, you may rest assured of that." he said, calming her further and ushering her down into a chair.

As usual, that strange, innate hypnotic charm he possessed soothed her immediately.

"Now," continued Holmes, seating himself. "Pray give me every detail you can, starting from the day he disappeared—earlier, even, if you can recall anything singular."

I pulled out my note-book and sat. I was very glad that Madame Bourgeois spoke good English, for I am afraid that even with shorthand I could not have kept up, for my own French was somewhat weak. Madame Bourgeois pulled out a silken handkerchief and daubed softly at her eyes before beginning her tale.

"Well, M. Holmes, that morning we were preparing to, as I have said, enjoy the spring weather. Everything seemed just as usual then. There wasn't a hint of wrong until lunch. It was just before lunch, really…when we were walking down the path to find a place to lay our blanket."

Holmes leaned forward in his seat, his finger-tips pressed together, face eager and sharp. "Then what?"

"As we were nearing the little brook we were going to sit by, I remember he had quickly turned and looked off at something intently. When I asked him what it was, he seemed troubled but said it was nothing—just his imagination. I thought nothing of it until much later, after he had disappeared and the police had already questioned me."

"Did you tell them of this point after you remembered it?"

"Yes, I thought it best to, but they did not think it was of any importance."

Holmes paused a moment, leaning back in his chair.

"Pray, continue. What happened next?"

"He seemed much better a little later--though, you know, a woman's intuition always tells her if something is amiss, and I felt something was not quite right. I ignored it, however, and we laid out our blanket and sat. I had put the basket to my right, and I turned to get the food from it, and when I faced my husband…! He was gone! I called for him, but received no answer! I called and called, and searched, and still found no trace! I heard no reply! That is when I went for help, M. Holmes."

"Give me the details of your surroundings—you have already mentioned the brook. What else?"

"Well, Monsieur, we were facing the brook. To our left some ten feet away were the woods, and to our right about the same distance away, perhaps a little farther, was the footpath, and a small, low wooden bridge that crossed the water. The weather was fair."

"These woods…did the police search them?"

"Yes, of course. That is the first place they looked."

"And the ground where you were sitting—was it soft at all from the brook?"

"Not to an extreme amount, but enough to leave a mark. But, I am ashamed to say that I had gathered several people with my shouting that helped me to look before the police came. When they did arrive, they could not make anything from the ground."

A scowl touched Holmes's face, quickly swept away as fast as it came.

"Did the police find any other traces? Anything in the woods, in the stream…?"

"No, nothing."

"What can you tell me of your husband?"

"My husband—Jacques Bourgeois—is the finest man God ever set upon the earth, M. Holmes. There isn't a false blood in him. He and I have known each other for years—our parents knew each other. He did not seem to show any true interest in me until I returned from boarding school, and since then he was very fond of me indeed. We were friends for a while, and courted openly for one year before our marriage. He had one rival in my love, M. Édouard Leclair, who was also very handsome and strong, but he did not possess the gentleness of Jacques."

I had expected Holmes to be growing tired under this romantic talk, but as I looked at him I saw that his face was more intensely focused than ever.

"Have you heard from M. Leclair in the past four years?" he asked.

"…No, M. Holmes, I cannot say that I have." Madame Bourgeois replied.

Holmes looked deeply thoughtful for a moment.

"How intense was the rivalry between M. Bourgeois and Leclair?"

Madame Bourgeois' fine brow creased lightly in thought.

"My husband was never bitter, but did strive very hard for my hand. M. Leclair tried more than once to turn me against him, but was never overly harsh in his ways to Jacques—not more than one might _expect_ from a love rival. M. Leclair had a taste for trouble, however. He had a wild streak in him."

"That is one of the reasons you chose M. Bourgeois?"

"Yes. And I have never regretted my decision, so fine a man he was. Oh, M. Holmes, I am lost without him! You _must_ see what has become of him!"

"Has M. Bourgeois ever mentioned anything to you that seemed strange? Anything at all?"

"No, M. Holmes. Nothing that I can think of."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. …At least, I think I am."

"Please, Madame, I cannot help your husband unless I have every particular. You must tell me everything you can, even if you are not certain it bears anything upon the case."

Madame Bourgeois hesitated.

"A few weeks ago, my husband returned home very late. He had been at his club, but he always returned at least by ten. That night, he was not home until three o'clock in the morning. I had waited up for him, for I was much worried, and when he came in I swear, M. Holmes, that he was as blanched as a spirit and covered in such a sweat as I have never seen! Oh, it frightened me nearly to death. I asked him what the matter was, and why he was so late. His reply was that he only got caught up in a game of cards with some new fellows at the club, and that on his way home he thought he was followed by some strange man and it had frightened him a little."

"That is the reason he gave?"

"Yes."

"What did you think of it at the time?"

"…I thought it was rather strange. But I had no reason to doubt him. He had always been very truthful with me. But that he should be so frightened and unnerved by a simple stranger following him was too unlike him for me to accept. Jacques is too brave a man, M. Holmes. He was unnerved for the entire week afterward. But since then, he has been just as he was before."

"How long ago was this, exactly?"

"I...cannot say for certain. I believe it was last month."

Holmes looked very thoughtful, his brows drawn together. He stood suddenly.

"Merci, Madame Bourgeois. You have been most helpful. If I need anything else, I shall call again." he said. He took one of his visitor cards, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to her. "We are staying at this hotel, if you need to send us a message."

"Thank you, M. Holmes," said Madame Bourgeois. "I shall tell you anything I can think of, as long as it assists you in finding Jacques."

"Good day, Madame."

Holmes and I departed, stepping out onto the street and hailing a cab to return to the hotel.

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"She was a decent witness, Watson, but she did not realise the full extent of the information she held." Holmes said as we were on our way.

"Have you any clue as to the solution yet?" I asked.

"I am confident that I have caught the first threads that will lead me to the end." He said, alighting from the cab as it reached the hotel.

I followed him inside where he stopped at the front desk to write a few telegrams.

"Who are those to?" I asked.

"To Mycroft," Holmes replied. "He may have some sort of very important news in my absence, and I cannot have him sending messages to our empty rooms at Baker Street. I always make sure he knows where I am when I am away from London for very long. The other telegram..." He paused as he scribbled something, "...is to get a little piece of information. I do not have my indexes with me here, so I must have Mycroft look something up for me."

"Of course."

"Come, Watson," Holmes said as he passed the telegram to the man behind the desk. "I must smoke for a little while, and wait for a reply."

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**KS:**** Thanks for reading! We're getting past the annoying setup, little by little! XD**

**I seem to be getting back into the writing groove, and I do believe I have KCS to thank for it, because I now (at KCS's suggestion) have a Sherlock Holmes section forum, and a topic there specifically for this story, so go check it out!**

**And _please_,**** don't forget to review!**


	5. Telegram

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter five of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**¸ the sequel to _Brother. _We're FINALLY getting past the set up chapters and into the plot. We're not quite there yet, and there had to be a bit more filler in this chapter, but we're getting there! xD I attempted a bit of fluff-ish stuff here, but I'm not so sure of its quality.**

**Well, enjoy!**

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Holmes sat upon the sofa of our hotel room, smoking his pipe pensively. He had been in the same position for an hour now, hardly moving at all. I knew that he must be thinking on the case as he waited for his brother's telegram. I was busy reading my novel once again, and started when I heard my companion's somewhat strident voice.

"I cannot just sit here forever, Watson," he sighed, taking a few more draughts off of his pipe. "But I cannot make any moves or theories for certain until Mycroft sends his reply."

"What do you propose to do, then?" I asked.

"Well," said he, looking at me, "We could take a stroll around the city."

"It's rather late for that don't you think?"

"Nonsense, we'll be back before long. We're just taking a walk. I need to give Brother Mycroft a little time to do my research and reply." Holmes said, taking up his hat and gloves.

I had no desire to let him go out alone, and I did want to see the city, so I also took up my things and followed him.

The evening was slightly cool, and the sky was still faintly light in the horizon. The streetlamps were lit, and the Parisians were all dressed in their evening attire, making their way to their fashionable events.

Holmes took my arm and started walking.

"Paris is an interesting city," said he as we ambled along.

"How long has it been since you were last here?"

"Oh, it's been some years, but I remember it perfectly. …Other than what has changed, of course." He replied.

"Were you here long?"

"No, not very long. Just for a few weeks' holiday."

We walked on, Holmes now talking about various Parisian landmarks and their history. I, however, did not have the powers of detachment that my friend possessed, and Madame Bourgeois' story was playing over slowly in my mind. I could not make anything of it. Not that I ever did, but Holmes seemed to already have gleaned several facts at least from it alone by the way he was acting.

We were going nowhere in particular, and I was rather enjoying the walk when a sharp pang from my stomach reminded me that I had not eaten anything since the few small sandwiches we had at lunch so long ago. Holmes obviously heard my stomach's growling andhe stopped, looking at me earnestly.

"You're hungry?"

"Yes, actually," I replied. "I just remembered that I haven't eaten in hours."

Holmes looked around.

"Then I suppose some supper is in order…" he muttered. He had probably not given the slightest thought to food. "Come, we'll find a good restaurant."

Holmes did seem to know his way around fairly well, for it did not take long for us to find an area with several seemingly good restaurants—but, then, Paris seemed to be filled with them.

We entered in and acquired a table, and a waiter came to serve us.

"Serveur, est-ce que nous pouvons voir votre liste de vin?" Holmes asked.

"Bien sûr."

Holmes inspected the wine list, chose something and handed it back to the waiter,then looked at me.

"What would you like to eat, Watson?" he asked.

"The veal, I think."

"Good. I think I shall have the pâté de foie gras."

Holmes and I settled back to wait for our food, Holmes as usual letting his keen eyes drift around the room.

"Restaurants are an excellent place to observe people, Watson," he said thoughtfully, a light smile playing across his face.

"I know, Holmes, you've told me before."

"Well, yes." Holmes said, a little irritated at my interruption. He continued on with his thoughts, however. "When visiting a restaurant such as this, the people always tend to wear their nicer, less-worn clothes, therefore leaving fewer clues to draw inferences from."

He nodded his head toward a man a few tables away.

"What do you make of him, Watson?"

"I think we proved sufficiently on the boat over here that I don't do verywell at this game."

"It is good for you, Watson, to be able to notice things. It isn't hard. You just have to know what you're looking for."

"For example?"

"For example, that gentleman is a painter—look at the calluses onhis hands, his expression, his manner…not to mention that large patch of paint dried upon his wrist."

"I did not see that."

"It is always a good idea to look at a man's hands and wrists."

The waiter then brought us our meals, and we began to eat. I was famished, but I noticed that Holmes was not eating with an entirely hearty appetite. He never did when he was lacking facts for a case.

"You had better finish your meal, Holmes," said I. "The chef will be insulted if you do not."

Holmes looked at me with a slight smile.

"You're right, Watson." said he, proceeding to eat with a bit more energy.

"By the way, Holmes, after this affair is over with, do you think we could spare the time to see a few of the sights?" I asked.

Holmes paused.

"…I suppose so. I don't see any reason why we shouldn't, unless business calls us back to London," he replied. "Besides, I wanted to go and see the Père Lachaise Cemetery. Chopin is buried there."

"A cemetery, Holmes?"

"It isn't uncommon for tourists to go there." Holmes said, a trifle defensively.

"I would like to see l'Arc de Triomphe." I said as I cut into the meat on my plate.

"We'll try to make time for it, my good fellow."

* * *

Holmes and I thoroughly enjoyed our dinner, conversing comfortably on different subjects, and afterwards we were again strolling toward our hotel. The night had cooled a little further,but the streets were just as lively as they had been. 

"I _do_ hope that Mycroft has found out what I needed to know and sent the information…Every hour spent waiting is wasted." Holmes said, swinging his walking stick thoughtfully.

At that moment, an elderly gentleman came up to us and stopped us.

"Pardonne moi, monsieur, mais estce que tu es un Vernet?" he asked.

"Er... Oui, et non. Mon grandmère était un Vernet." Holmes replied.

"Ah, oui? Je pense c'est vrai! Je le peux voir dans tes yeux. Excuse moi, monsieur, pour demander. Bonne soirée, messieurs." He bowed slightly, turned, and walked away.

"What was that about?" I asked.

"Oh, just someone thinking they recognised me." Holmes said, waving his hand to dismiss the subject.

We arrived at our hotel and went up to our rooms, I for one grateful to sink down into a comfortable armchair. The day had been enough to thoroughly tire me. Travelling was always such a trial on the nerves, not to mentionour long walk to the restaurant and back.

"Ha!" Holmes cried.

I turned my head.

"What is it, Holmes?"

Holmes spun around quickly and held up two telegrams he had found waiting on the table.

"It seems that brother Mycroft has indeed made himself useful." He replied with a smirk. He walked over to the chair opposite me, but did not sit down. He tore open the first message and devoured its contents, a small exclamation of satisfaction coming when he was finished.

"Is it how you expected?" I asked.

"Yes, indeed. My suspicions have been confirmed. Now I just have to see how they weigh on the case." Holmes replied, pulling out and lighting his pipe as he glanced at the outside of the second curiously. "I wonder what this second is for?"

He ripped it open also and nonchalantly glanced over its contents.

And his face blanched as he did so.

"Holmes…?" I asked when I saw the pallor of his features. "What is it?"

Holmes's face remained perfectly steady, but I saw that his grey eyes were troubled as they stared down at the paper.

He abruptly pushed the paper into his pocket, following it withthe first message.

"It is nothing," he said quickly. "Mycroft just wanted to tell me to be careful—he does not want me to start any foreign troubles for him to clean up."

I looked at him dubiously for a moment as he settled down into the chair and smoked quickly and nervously. After a few minutes his grey eyes rose to meet mine.

"I said it is nothing, Watson. Now, please, I must think over this case for a few hours."

I stood, stretching my leg very slightly upon standing to ease the slight pain that had come from the exertion of the day..

"All right, Holmes." I said. "I'm going to bed now, if you don't need me for anything."

Holmes made an abrupt sweeping motion with his hand for me to leave.

"Good night, Holmes."

"…Good night, Watson."

* * *

**KS:**** Hee, that untranslated discussion with the elderly French gentleman is a bit of an Easter Egg, if you want to go to a site and translate it. I thank Storyranger for doing the English-to-French translations.**

**Thank you for reading! Now please, review!**


	6. The Message

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter six of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**¸ the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I'm sorry that updates aren't coming as quickly as you probably would like! They're not coming as quickly as I'd like, either. XD**

**We're getting more and more into the better bits of the plot though! Just hang on!**

**A/N: In the past few chapters, the little horizontal lines thatI put in have NOT been working, and I haven't been noticing it. My little abrupt scene changes have been undoubtedly confusing to youwithout any warning of their happening. I apologise for this. It's all the site's fault. There have also been formatting errors to come out of nowhere...those are not my fault either. The site is being moody with me, and apparently I'm not the only one. XDD**

**This chapter starts off in Holmes's POV.**

**Enjoy!**

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As soon as I knew that Watson was in bed I pulled that infernal telegram out again, giving it only another short glance before tossing it bitterly into the grate.

I watched as the flames devoured it. How I wished that those same flames would devour the truth of the message it contained.

SHERLOCK STOP HUGHES ESCAPED FROM PRISON STOP POLICE STILL SEARCHING STOP WILL SEND DETAILS LATER STOP

MYCROFT

Mycroft had sent it—undoubtedly it was true. He would not burden me with such a thing if it were not so. I ran my hand across my face, gripping my pipe with the other as I tried to let the smoke sooth my nerves.

How had that blackguard escaped!? Hadn't they heeded my warnings that they should watch him with extreme care? Apparently not! _Confound_ that police force!

I looked toward the room that Watson was now slumbering peacefully in. I now desired heavily to go to London and give that devil Hughesa thrashing for what he had done to Watson just a few months ago, and set him back in gaol where he belonged—or see him hanged. But I could not.

Hughes would expect me to return to London—once he found that I am not there already. And I knew all too well that he knew Watson was my weakness—that is what I got for allowing myself to get close to anyone. I could _not_ put Watson in that sort of danger again.

We would have to remain in Paris at the present time. I would be able to easily get my news from Mycroft, though an amount of secrecy would have to be established. I did not want to risk Hughes coming _here_ to look for me.

And I could not tell Watson about this.

He had worried enough about me during our last encounter with Hughes—he had made that plain enough to me when it was all over…When it had _seemed_ to be all over, at least. Now it was starting up again. Blast it all.

I had been so afraid after that… Afraid that Watson would realise he could easily be used as bait by any villain with a vendetta against me, and disassociate himself from me so that he would not be used to hurt me. That would only succeed in hurting me further, but he would not realise that fully, I knew. I would not tell him of Hughes's escape. Not until I absolutely must.

I would have to keep the most intense vigil over the both of us to make sure we were safe constantly…which would be immensely difficult to do while on this case, but I felt capable of doing it.

I smoked a bit harder.

Hughes was a man with an intensely fearsome and unforgiving temper. I had known that before my unfortunate encounter with him, but now the fact was driven into my mind. Now that he had been convicted, his reputation and life were ruined. He had nothing left to live for, and would undoubtedly swear vengeance on me. Hughes would desire with his entire person to inflict the most terrible, gruesome revenge upon the both of us.

A terrible, horrible death would be ours if we were not careful. Hughes would be after us with all of his venom, but I had a much stronger desire backing me: to keep my dearest and only friend safe, and rid society of Jackson Hughes.

I sank low in my chair. I had been looking forward to investigating this case immensely. Ithad beena long, dreadfulperiod of stagnation. Now that I finally had a case, I would be heavily distracted, and would have to worry about Watson constantly. Even now I should be thinking about the case, but wasn't. I drove the Hughes matter into the far corner of my mind—I could not completely ignore it, but I must have clear focus. I must always have it in sight, but not overpoweringly so.

I did not go to bed. I spent the rest of the night staring into the fire, smoking and meditating on my courses of action.

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_**WATSON:**_

I awoke a little earlier than usual the next morning, and after I had dressed I went into the sitting-room of our hotel rooms to find Holmes engaged in reading the newspaper. Or, at least, he seemed to be at first. When I looked closer, I saw that he was really only staring at it blankly, lost in thought as he smoked his morning pipe.

"Good morning, Holmes," said I.

My friend started at my voice, looking up quickly from the paper.

"Oh. Good morning, Watson." he said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes. Did you even sleep at all?"

"No. I had no time to sleep." He pointed at the table with the stem of his pipe as he continued to glance over the news. "I took the liberty of calling for breakfast," he continued.

"It was very good of you," I said as I sat. "You should probably have a piece of this toast if you're planning on going out to-day."

Holmes tossed the paper to the side, leaning his head back over the top of the low chair and looking out the window behind him.

"Perhaps," he said. "That, and an umbrella. But I don't think I can spare the energy and focus to eat to-day."

I proceeded to butter some toast for myself. I had known that Holmes would decline the food, but I always felt obligated to try and get him to eat. I was just about to take a sip of my coffee when there was a sharp, professional knock at our room's door. Holmes sprang from his chair and went over, throwing it open, and there was a small messenger boy.

"Monsieur Holmes?" he asked, holding up a telegram.

Holmes nodded, taking the paper.

"Merci."

Holmes gave the boy a coin, at which the boy's eyes lit up, and the door was closed again. My friend looked thoughtfully for some time at the outside of the sealed message before tearing it open and looking over its contents.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked.

Holmes did not appear to hear me. He walked back over to the chair he had been seated in and dropped heavily into it, stretching out and crossing his legs and furrowing his brow. After a few moments he looked up at me, drawing a long breath as he came out of his reverie.

"It is just another message from Mycroft," he replied simply.

"More information?"

"Indeed.Quite so."

Holmes stood, coming over to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He took a sip and looked at it.

"Rather weak," he muttered, gulping the rest of it down quickly. He poured himself another cup and walked over to the long windows, looking out upon the city.

"I'm going out to-day to see if I can locate Monsieur Bourgeois." he said.

"Shall I come with you?" I asked.

"Yes," Holmes said quickly before downing his other cup. "I would be more comfortable if you did."

I furrowed my brow, a bit confused by his words.

"Surely you wish to see the city? I shall be travelling a lot to-day."

"Of course I'll come with you, Holmes."

"Good,"Holmes removed his dressing gown as he went into his room. He poked his head back out. "And bring your revolver."

"My revolver! Holmes, do you expect danger?"

"It's a possibility." He replied, disappearing back into his room.

I went into my room and went through my luggage, finding and pocketing my revolver. Holmes was acting as if something great was looming ahead—I hoped that M. Bourgeois was not in any deep danger, for the lady's sake.

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**KS:**** It is MUCH easier to write when you have a timeframe in mind. The last few chapters have been muddled severely as to time, because I was not sure about how long their travels would have taken. But now it's a new day, and my in-story clock has been set right. X3**

**Thank you for reading! Now please, review!**


	7. Police Headquarters

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

* * *

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter seven of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**¸ the sequel to _Brother._ I had a little over 14 hours of sleep last night, and so I hope that I am a bit more lucid than I have been, though I'm still in need of more sleep to catch up. I still doubt whether I'll get the horizontal line dividers to work, but they are not needed as much in this chapter, so it shouldn't be a big problem. (And if any two words are randomly smashed together, that is ALSO the fault of this random site bug. I hate it.)**

**Also, there is a very tiny bit of French here, and since I'm posting it so late, I didn't think I'd have anyone to ask to translate it for me...so I was stuck doing it on my own. Therefore, it may not be perfect.**

**This chapter is entirely in Holmes's POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Watson and I were taking a cab through the city, our current destination a little too far for us to go on foot. We were making our way toward the headquarters of the Parisian police to make our inquiries. 

Watson had seemed dubious of me when I had said earlier that we would need an umbrella, for it had been apleasant morning. The steady, soft rain that now beat against the roof of our cab, however,was a nice reminder of how important it was to watch the barometer.

I was glad, however, that my Boswell was not as observant as I. He seemed to have shown some suspicion at first as to the telegrams I had received about Hughes, but he seemed now to have dismissed it and accepted my explanation. I glanced over at him quickly—he was occupied with staring out at the soggy city.

"Have you worked with the Paris Police before?" he asked, turning to me.

"No, but some of them have sent letters asking for help on a few small matters, to which I have guided them to the answer."

"So you're familiar with a few of them?"

"By name," I replied. "It is a trying thing, however, to have to work with police officials that are not yet used to your habits."

Watson smiled slightly at that, as I knew he would.

I sometimes, as he well knew, loved to try the patience of the officials back home.But they knew it was only my way, and knew that I was their only hope in some cases and soendured it as well as they could. These new policemenwould not have that developed patience.

Our cab bounced over a rough spot in the road.

"How far along in the case are you now?" Watson asked.

"I believe I have who did it, and a bit of the reason, but I still have a few questions." I replied.

"And that is why we are going to the police."

"Precisely so."

The cab finally arrived at our destination and I alighted, the rain now having lightened enough for me to ignore it and not use my umbrella. Watson followed soon after, choosing to use his umbrella, and we entered the police headquarters together.

The place was fairly bustling, just as the Yard always was at this time of day, and I proceeded forward to a policeman behind a desk.

"Parlez vous Anglais?" I asked. I knew Watson's French was somewhat poor, so the question was asked for his benefit.

"Oui,"The policeman replied.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said I, "I am investigating the disappearance of Monsieur Bourgeois."

"Oh! Monsieur Holmes!" exclaimed the official. "I have heard of you, sir."

I smiled quickly, but was rather impatient to continue—though it was good that he had heard of me. Perhaps it would help things along.

"Yes. I must speak with the inspector who is over the case." I said.

The policeman paused a moment.

"I am sure, M. Holmes, that you may after signing a few papers—"

"I haven't the time for papers, M. Bourgeois may be in danger as we speak."

"I…shall fetch Inspector Achard." The officer said. "Please, wait here."

I turned to Watson, putting one hand into my trouser pocket and tapping the hard floor impatiently with my walking stick which was in the other.

"Achard, Achard…I have heard that name before. I do hope this Achard fellow is the helpful sort." I said, glancing about the room. "I have no time, nor the patience, for a stubborn policeman."

I now largely wanted this case to be completed—it would be much easier to keep my eye open for danger when it was not focused elsewhere, and I could keep Watson distracted from the danger much more easily when he was focused on the sights of Paris.

"Let's just hope, Holmes," Watson began, "That the policeman doesn't feel the same about a stubborn English detective."

I glared at Watson, in no mood for his occasional pawky humour—he, of course, did not know why. "English _unofficial __consulting_ detective, Watson." said I.

Watson chortled softly, and then we both saw the policeman return, followed by a tall, thin man—a plainclothes detective. He had narrow shoulders and held his chin up high, keeping his hands clasped behind his back. His brown eyes had bags underneath, and between them was a somewhat short, hooked nose.

"Monsieur…Holmes?" he asked as he stepped up to us, looking from Watson to myself to ascertain which of us was whom.

"I am M. Holmes," said I, raising my hand slightly and stepping forward. "Madame Bourgeois has asked me to come to Paris for this case, and I have been looking into it. I feel that it would be helpful if I asked you a few questions."

"I have my doubts as to whether you should really be looking into the matter at all, sir." The detective said, the disdain for my presence not veiled in the slightest.

I raised my eyebrows.

"Do you not think it is an interesting case?" I asked.

"Indeed, sir, it is an interesting one. Difficult, you English might say."

"And if you solved it, you would undoubtedly get the credit. That would boost your reputation, would it not?"

"Yes,"

"But of course you know that I only desire to investigate—I want no credit if I should solve the case. Which means that it would go to you."

I saw the thin man's face twitch slightly.

"Your methods are…admirable." he said. "You do not wish to stand in the way of the force, I see. Come, M. Holmes. We will discuss these matters in my office."

We followed him back through the corridors of the police headquarters and entered his room. He sat behind his desk and waved us abruptly into chairs.

"What is it that you would like to know?" he asked.

"Only the facts," I replied. "What have you learnt so far of the affair? Madame Bourgeois has told me, according to her own account, everything that she has told you."

"We…have made progress." The official detective so dodgingly replied.

"How _much_ progress?"

"We have been making inquiries into M. Bourgeois' past. To see if he treated any other ladies in this fashion."

"Oh?" I asked, feigning interest. I decided scoffing at the official's theories was not my best way to start out. "And what have you gathered from that?"

"Only that he has had very few other female interests, M. Holmes." Achard replied, a slightly dismal tone to his voice. "And none of the ones we've found express any adverse opinions of him."

"That is indeed interesting." I said. "Perhaps your theory of his running away is false?"

"I believe so now too, M. Holmes. But I can not imagine what happened otherwise! Perhaps it is good that you have come." Achard ran a thin hand over his forehead quickly.

We were making progress…he was now grateful of my presence.

"Nothing?" said I. "What of the woods? What of M. Bourgeois' earlier distraction in the park—of the unease of a few weeks ago?"

"Nothing, M. Holmes. It does not fall together to make sense in my mind."

"Well, that is too bad." I said, leaning back a bit in the chair. "Oh, M. Achard…by the way, did you by any chance investigate the robbery four years back, perpetrated by M. Édouard Leclair? I studied it in the papers when it happened, and thought I would learn a bit more of the particulars while in Paris."

"No, M. Holmes, but I do know of it," Achard replied. "There are no more particulars than what appeared in the papers, I am certain. But, I think it would interest you to know that M. Leclair was released only a few weeks ago."

"Really?" I asked. "Most fascinating. My thanks to you, Inspector Achard. I shall call again if I have more questions or information for you."

I stood, Watson following my example, and left. We were back out on the streets and I was attempting to hail a cab when Watson came up beside me.

"Holmes, is that really all you needed to know?" he asked incredulously.

"All for the moment, yes." I replied. "It is good to know to whom you are giving the credit for your work. And besides, I needed to know where the police were in the matter, and he did confirm one point I wasvery nearly certainabout."

A cab finally stopped for us, and I jumped in.

"Come, Watson, the game's afoot!"

* * *

**KS: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! And I hope it was better than it has been...but I fear it wasn't, since I was largely distracted while writing it...XD**

**Now please, review!**


	8. Monsieur Bourgeois

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter eight of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**¸ the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I am very sorry it's so slow so far…I've been trying to spread it out to be better, but I'm not sure that's how that's going. XDD**

**Up until now, I've kept all French-speaking scenes in their original language, but now…The scenes are actually having a little weight upon the story, so I think dear Watson's going to translate. :)**

**And I don't think the document bug is fixed yet...so ignore words that have been shoved together. I hope the lines work still!**

**T****his chapter starts off in Watson's POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

We rode along in a cab for quite a while, and I was very glad to see when it finally stopped raining. Holmes informed me briefly that we were not returning to the hotel—though I did not think that we would, for it all seemed too unsolved to me to do so, and Holmes seemed to be at the peak of energy. He had called out the name of some street to the cabby, and that was where we were rolling off to now.

It was not very long before we arrived. Our cabby pulled the horse to a stop, saying something in French to the effect of, "All right, gentlemen, this is the street."

We disembarked, and I saw that it was quite a shoddy part of town. I did not wonder at this, though. Holmes's investigations often carried us to the underbelly of society.

"The inspectors in these cases always neglect to inquire of every _important_ detail," said Holmes as we walked along the dingy street. "They focus on the most superficial items, ignoring everything that could be of help to them."

"I still cannot see what conclusions you have come to—though I suspect it has something to do with Monsieur Leclair."

"Indeed, you have not made the connections? Do the facts that Monsieur Leclair was once M. Bourgeois' rival for Madame Bourgeois' hand, and that M. Leclair was in prison until a few weeks ago—the very same time when M. Bourgeois' first event of unease occurred—convey anything to your mind?"

"Of course! I had not thought of that. But what made you think to inquire of him?" I asked, amazed.

"It is simple. I remember reading of Leclair's trial four years ago. When Madame Bourgeois mentioned the name, it set a train of thought in motion. But I still could be very wrong. That is why we are going to make a few more inquiries."

We stopped outside of a run-down, dark public house, and Holmes motioned slightly with his stick. 

"This looks like just the place…Come, Watson!" he said, a smile on his thin face.

We entered, and if I had not been used to the smells of a war camp and the thick, acrid tobacco atmosphere Holmes so often meditated in, I should have choked. The smells that bombarded my nostrils were a strong mix of beers, liquors, astringent tobaccos, and filth of all kinds. Sweat mingled with it all, making me feel more than a little nauseous. The people the establishment entertained were not much better than its atmosphere—noxious, dirty, and low.

I felt every eye lock upon us as we made our way to the bar.

"Excuse me, landlord, but I must ask you a few questions." said Holmes to the proprietor, sliding a coin across the bar.

"Yes? What is it?" the gruff, bearded man asked.

"Have you heard anything of Monsieur Jacques Bourgeois?"

"I might have—why?" the landlord replied, cocking an eyebrow and slipping the coin into his apron pocket.

"I have business that concerns him."

"I see. I don't think M. Bourgeois has any wants to see any people."

"But I come for his benefit."

"He is not seeing anyone, Monsieur." the landlord said, his eyes narrowing warningly. 

I was not following the conversation particularly closely, knowing that Holmes would inform me later as to how it went. I was instead keeping my eye on the patrons of the public house, who were surveying us with baleful glares. It took no great powers of observation to know we were not welcome here.

"I must see him about Monsieur Édouard Leclair." Holmes continued.

The landlord paused. I could see the name had an instant effect on him.

"M. Édouard Leclair?"

"Indeed."

The landlord again hesitated, sitting down the glass he had been cleaning.

"What do you know of M. Leclair?" he asked warily.

At this time a rough-looking couple of men stepped up to the bar next to us, leaning against it and glaring fixedly at us. They mumbled to each other for a minute, and then the one on the left sneered at me and said something quickly in what seemed like a very derisive tone. They were speaking much too fast, and much too drunkenly, for me to understand…and I could feel that I wouldn't like what they were saying if I did.

"Holmes," I said, touching my friend on his shoulder.

"Wait just a moment, Watson." Holmes said.

The men continued to sneer and glare, especially at me in particular.

"Holmes…" I said again.

"What is it, Watson?" he asked, finally turning toward me slightly. His tone was impatient, but his quick eyes and even quicker brain deduced the situation quickly.

"I don't think these men want us here." I said in a half-whisper.

Holmes turned fully and stared at the two men, and I saw his keen grey eyes flit over the rest of the room's occupants, before returning to me. He flashed a quick, slight smile.

"I don't suppose so," he said. "Gentlemen, can I buy you a drink? Perhaps you have some information I could use."

"We don't need your drinks," said one of the ruffians, his speech slurred somewhat with drink. "You're bloody police, aren't you? Plainclothes type."

Holmes did not drop his amiable demeanour.

"Why? Were you expecting them?" he asked.

The rough on the left scowled, and with a drunken step he threw a clumsy but solid punch straight at my friend. Even sober the man was probably far from a match for Holmes. My companion's thin arm shot up quickly and caught the man's wrist, grasping it so tightly that the ruddy man's flesh turned as white as his own.

"Come now," said Holmes, his grey eyes dancing with excitement. "It may not be the wisest thing to engage in fisticuffs in your state."

The man only snarled again, using his free arm to throw another punch. Holmes's arm went up instantly to block and swatted away the blow, and after quickly releasing the held arm, threw a punch that contacted cleanly with his face, sending him reeling backwards. He stumbled and fell over a chair onto his back.

Luckily the other fellow lost his nerve once he saw how easily Holmes had dispensed with his companion, and backed away nervously. Holmes's cool demeanour must have affected the other patrons also, and their gazes quickly became less intense, a few even averting their stares entirely. Holmes turned coolly back to the landlord and resumed his conversation.

"I know of the reason for M. Bourgeois' disappearance—and what M. Leclair has to do with it." he said.

The landlord's eyebrows rose again, and I saw irresolution in his features.

"And who are you?" he asked finally. "Why should you want to know where he is?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes," my friend replied, all the masterfulness of his voice present. "And I wish nothing more than to clear this matter up."

"Well…." the landlord muttered, "…I suppose it won't hurt nothing. Go on back—the second door on the right upstairs."

"What, Leclair is here?"

"No, M. Bourgeois is." the landlord said.

Holmes was a little surprised for a moment, but looked at me, and we walked toward the back staircase toward the first floor. We mounted the stairs, Holmes proceeding quickly as he always did when excited, and knocked sharply at the door we had been directed to. There was a brief moment of silence before a weary voice replied from within.

"Enter," said the room's occupant.

Holmes turned the knob and we went inside. The room was dimly lit, and a thin cloud of smoke filled the room. It was a small bedroom, plainly furnished, and at a small table in the centre of the room a man sat sombrely, drinking what looked like whiskey from a tumbler and smoking a cigarette.

He was fairly tall and strong-looking, with raven black hair smoothed back with pomade. His dishevelled clothes, loose hair, and unshaved chin bespoke recent rough times. 

It was Monsieur Jacques Bourgeois.

I remembered seeing photographs of him in the sitting-room when we went to see Madame Bourgeois, but in those photographs he had not seemed quite so miserable. Holmes quickly walked up to him.

"M. Bourgeois," he started professionally. 

The man looked up and at my friend and me with weary eyes. 

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am Sherlock Holmes. I have been asked to come to Paris to investigate your disappearance by your wife." My friend replied.

"My wife! God, how I miss her! But I cannot go back—you can do nothing for me, Monsieur." M. Bourgeois sighed heavily.

"I believe I can, M. Bourgeois. But you must tell me precisely what M. Leclair wants from you."

Bourgeois looked up from his glass, startled. 

"H-how do you know of Leclair?" he gasped.

"Four years ago, M. Leclair was arrested after burglarising the Bank of France. He was found guilty, but many questions were raised during the inquest. Only half of the money was found—had Leclair hidden it? Or had he an accomplice?"

I saw even in the dim light as Bourgeois' face blanched slightly.

"With the evidence, the police could prove nothing, but it was strongly suspected that Leclair had an accomplice. I knew there had to be one as I read the details of the case in the English papers, but I was engaged in a matter of great importance at the time, and could not look into the matter myself. Monsieur Bourgeois, I believe strongly that you were Leclair's accomplice."

Bourgeois' face was dead white and damp with sweat, and he ran a hand nervously over his face. 

"Oh, please, sir, please…" he said softly and miserably, "Please do not tell Marie. It would break her heart—shatter her confidence in me for ever! Please…"

"I have no intentions of doing so as of yet," said Holmes, "but you must give me the facts. What does Leclair propose to do now?"

Bourgeois took a nervous draught from his cigarette, his fingers tapping uneasily against his glass.

"I…I will, Monsieur. I have h-heard of you. I have confidence in your judgement—if it means my going to prison, then…so be it." Bourgeois said. "It was, as you said, four years ago. Leclair and I were not what you would call friends, but we knew each other well. We both loved Marie immensely, and were fighting for her hand. I was from a good family, but I had squandered much of my money in my youthful escapades. Leclair was wild—more so than even I would dare to be—and proposed a bank robbery. I would not dare go for that. But, he knew I needed money badly, and with his smooth speech he coerced me into a burglary at night. From the moment it began, M. Holmes, I swear, I regretted agreeing to it. Leclair said that he would shoot me or report me if I backed out, however, and I stayed. We finished the deed with no problem, but a week later, Leclair was arrested."

Bourgeois rubbed at his temples anxiously as he took another long draught from his cigarette before extinguishing it on the table before him.

"They did not come after me at first, but I was deathly afraid for months that Leclair would say something, or the evidence would pile against me. Nothing happened, though, and I eventually settled my high-strung nerves. With my half of the money I paid what debts I owed, put some aside, and gave the rest to charity. With Leclair in prison, Marie and I grew ever closer, and we married within a year. I have given her no reason to despise me. I have been a model husband to her, and she has even talked of soon starting a family."

"And then M. Leclair was freed." said Holmes.

Bourgeois nodded.

"He was the one to shoot the guard…not I. He should not be on the streets. When I came home from the club one night, Leclair confronted me. It nearly stopped my heart to see him there, aged from prison and more wicked-looking than ever. It was then that he told me….that he told me…." Here he paused, taking a long drink of whiskey. 

"…He told me that he wanted Marie back—that I stole her from him while he was in prison. On that point I was firm—he would not have my Marie. Never. When he heard that, he demanded my half of the money—he said that he had earned it with his life of punishment—martyrdom, he called it. My money, or he would tell Marie what I had done."

"So you dare not return home." Holmes said.

Bourgeois shook his head, setting his head in his hand.

"If I do not return home, he will not tell her. And I have not the money to pay him what he wants."

"Where is Leclair now?"

"…I am not sure. He has so many underground burrows to hide in."

"Just as you have this."

"The landlord is an old friend. He is letting me stay for close to nothing." Bourgeois raised his eyes to meet Holmes's. "Monsieur, if…possibly…you could help me. If I am to be disgraced, I don't want it to come from that serpent's lips to my dear, sweet Marie. I am paying dearly indeed for this supreme indiscretion of my youth."

Holmes was quiet a moment.

"I shall find Leclair, M. Bourgeois." he said. "But I cannot just let you go. I will give you three days…you must turn yourself in. I will speak for you at your trial, if I must, but if you come forward on your own, the jury may take a more lenient look, and it is a far better thing than having Leclair ruin your name."

Bourgeois settled his head into his hands and nodded.

"Yes…yes...You're right. I know you're right." He whispered dismally. "I…will turn myself in. But, God have mercy on me! What will Marie think?"

"I will see to Madame Bourgeois," said Holmes. "And I shall settle the matter with Leclair."

Bourgeois looked up quickly. 

"But, Monsieur, do be careful. Leclair had good in him once, but when I saw him last…! I think a devil has been awakened in him. Prison has driven the mercy and goodness he may have had from him."

Holmes nodded.

"We will not be careless. Good-bye, M. Bourgeois. I hope this ends well for you." He said as we turned to leave.

I breathed an immense sigh of relief when we had quitted that dismal little building. Even the dirty street seemed invigorating compared to the low atmosphere of that public house. Holmes looked around, and then turned to me, his sharp features intense.

"Let us go, Watson. We mustn't waste time."

I was growing weary, but I knew Holmes might need me at any point in this tiring and confusing mystery. We walked along the street for some minutes, I following closely beside Holmes, when a cab drove past us quickly, splashing mud from the street up onto my clothes.

"Ugh!" I cried, attempting to shake off what mud I could. I looked over at Holmes. "Holmes…could we go back to the hotel so I can change…?"

Holmes stopped and looked me over with a critical eye.

"I suppose so…" he replied, somewhat disappointed. 

Holmes looked around the street, then back at me.

"All right. We'll call a cab and return to the hotel, you can eat lunch, and then we'll continue."

* * *

We returned to the hotel, and I started to untie my cravat as soon as we were in the door of our rooms.

"Oh, Holmes," said I, seeing a stack of envelopes upon the dining-table, "you've some more telegrams."

Holmes went over to these with intense energy, and he ripped open the one on top quickly. He read it, and every vestige of colour drained from his face.

"Holmes…?" I asked nervously. "Holmes!"

* * *

**KS: You know, I don't update as quickly if people don't review…83**

**Even if you don't have much to say about it, say SOMETHING! Well, not just anything…a review of "fjksljgisdhgihgrk!" won't get you a quicker update. XD**


	9. Attacked

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter nine of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**¸ the sequel to _Brother. _Now we're really getting somewhere, I think. I do hope you're enjoying this, because it has been far more scattered than I EVER intended it to be--bear with me. XD**

**T****his chapter starts off in Watson's POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Holmes! Whatever is the matter?" I asked quickly.

Holmes had lowered the slip of paper, his grey eyes looking distant as they gazed into the corner of the room. His features were pale, and his lips were pressed firmly into a thin line. I walked over to his side, and he calmly folded the telegram over. I noted that his face began to flush, and wondered what had him in such a state.

"Another telegram on the case," Holmes replied simply, putting the folded paper into his inner coat pocket. He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and I saw something in his eyes that I could not quite recognise.

"Another?" I asked. "From Mycroft?"

"Indeed." Holmes replied, pulling out his cigarette case. "If you could change, Watson, and hurry with your lunch, we can set out once more and have this case finished by to-night."

He pulled out a cigarette, fingering at it nervously as he tapped it against the case.

"All right," I said, giving a small smile to perhaps relieve the stress these telegrams kept bringing. "Ring for some food, would you? I'm famished." 

Holmes returned the smile briefly, and I went into my room and changed out of my clothes into clean ones.

I went as fast as I could, and when I finished I re-entered the sitting-room and found Holmes staring out the window, smoking.

"All right, Holmes, I've changed."

Holmes turned, and his grey eyes darted over me quickly.

"Good," he said, tossing the end of his cigarette into the fireplace. "The food is on the table."

I sat down and began on the provided meal, and Holmes poured himself a cup of tea. I didn't even both with asking if he would eat—I could easily tell he was far too focused to be so distracted. I ate quickly, for I knew Holmes would want to get back to work as soon as possible. When I had pushed my chair back from the table, Holmes stood, tossing yet another cigarette end into the grate.

"Let us be off, then. We must find Leclair and get this over with," he said, stepping towards the door.

We descended to the street, where Holmes hailed a cab. I felt quite refreshed, having eaten and changed clothes—not only were the ones I had on before covered in mud, but they had a lingering, unpleasant smell from the public house.

"Where are we going now, Holmes?" I asked.

"We shall be searching the lower parts of Parisian life for Leclair's burrow." My friend replied as a cab rattled up and we climbed up into it.

"I thought you preferred to do that sort of thing on your own."

"...Normally, yes. But I think it is best to have a little support in unfamiliar territory." Holmes replied, leaning back in the cab and looking out the side.

I leaned back in my own seat a bit, happy to know that Holmes was being at least a little sensible about his own safety for oncein a case.

* * *

_**HOLMES**_

Once we were riding down the broad main streets of Paris, I was once more brooding over the dark message sent to me by my brother. I could see the blasted words on the paper as well as if they were right in front of my eyes.

HUGHES QUESTIONED LANDLADY STOP ISEN ROUTETO PARIS STOP BE CAREFUL STOP

MYCROFT

My nervous fingers ran along my cane, feeling all of the individual dents and scratches from fights in the past. It was a good cane…a heavy cane. Solid, too, and weighted with lead. Little good it would do, though, if Hughes found us and had a revolver. I should have brought my own, but how could I have anticipated that Hughes would escape from prison? Watson was armed. That was good. He was almost always armed on cases anymore—he had learnt long ago I pay no attention to my own safety on these cases. 

I had told Watson I was bringing him along for help since this was unfamiliar territory to me, but the truth was that I was loath to leave him alone in the hotel. It didn't matter that he could lock the door, or that he had a revolver with him. Hughes would be able to find his way to him easily enough there. And I had no doubt that, instead of using him as a lure this time, he would have no compunctions in shooting Watson in cold blood for revenge.

Jack the Devil! He had proved his name—he had the devil's own luck, as they say, and had a heart just as black. Blast it all! We were not safe here in Paris. I did not know it as well as I knew London, which I knew justas if it were my own yard. Hughes did not know Paris well either, as far as I knew, but I could not be sure. I didn't even know if he spoke French or not. But Hughes was not without connections. 

And a desperate, merciless man with connections was a dangerous thing indeed. 

I must be at all alertness. I did not know when Hughes would arrive, or what he would try, but I would be ready for him.

* * *

_**WATSON:**_

"Blast!" cried Holmes as we left the fourth public house. "That was _completely_ useless!"

It was now later in the evening. The shadows were growing deeper about the city, especially in these dank corners which we had been exploring.

"Oh, come, Holmes. I thought you handled that rather well." I said, trying to keep the smile off of my face.

"Why did they think that _I_ came for a prostitute?" Holmes growled as we proceeded to walk down the dingy street again. "Of all things! They would not listen to a word I said!"

"Well, Holmes, it wasn't entirely useless." 

"How was it _not_?" my friend grumbled.

"While you were busy fending off the fairer sex,I managed to get some information."

"Ah," said Holmes, sounding more interested. "That is why you weren't helping me. Well, what did you find out?"

"That Leclair goes there often."

Holmes turned upon me.

"What?" he asked. "What else?"

"He comes in, drinks heavily, flirts with the women—sometimes a little more than that—and goes home."

"How often?" I could tell by his eyes that he was excited.

"I asked, and they told me that it varied. He came most when he had 'a bad day,' as they said. At least, that's what I understood."

Holmes looked thoughtful a moment, tapping his cane against the street.

"Then we will have to set up a watch." he said. "But not to-night—we are not fully prepared." He looked at me. "We can do nothing more for now. But soon we will draw the nets around Leclair and have this entire matter cleared up."

"So for now wewill return to the hotel for the night?"

"Indeed," said Holmes, giving me a slight smile.

We walked off, the darkness drawing ever closer around us. The gaslight threw shadows all about us, and our own shadows' ends were far from us. I would be glad when we got out of this squalid section of the city, and back in our rooms with a good bath, a good meal, and a good pipe.

* * *

_**HOLMES:**_

Finally, the case I had been brought here on was drawing to an end. It would not take long for me to finish things now. When my attentions were off this case, I could focus entirely on protecting Watson and myself. I knew Hughes would come and find us eventually, and we would have to face him, but I would want to fight the battle on my terms, not his. I would dictate the battle. But that would not be easy until I was finished with this case and my mind was clear. 

And what a simple, trivial case it was! I would already be finished with it if I did not have to keep my eye on Watson constantly. This case was not worth my coming to Paris. But now that I had started it, I could not end it. I was handling it rather poorly so far, but other matters were weighing so heavily on my mind...

"Do you think, Holmes, that we shall have this completed by Sunday night?" Watson asked, breaking into my thoughts.

"Hm? Why?"

"I thought we could go see a concert or an opera." he replied. "I thought it would be a good way to relax after the case is finished."

I smiled slightly.

"It may not be so quick, but I think it shouldn't take too long."

We walked on for a little longer. My dear Watson meant well, but I don't think even a concert could quite settle me. The shadows that flitted about from our movements in this solitary side street aroused my worries. Every movement in the darkness grasped my attention. 

I slipped my arm through Watson's. My instincts were nagging at the back of my mind. Something was wrong. I saw a motion in the shadows. The hair on the back of my neck stood. I stopped.

"Watson…" I whispered.

"…What is it, Holmes…?" Watson whispered back.

I was silent, listening intently. I heard my heart, my breathing…Watson's breathing…

Footsteps.

My eyes widened.

I turned round, and my suspicions were confirmed. Two men were behind us, armed with formidable-looking lead-weighted bludgeons. 

Only two. That wasn't too bad. I lifted my cane to readiness. I then felt Watson's solid grip fasten itself onto my shoulder as a small gasp escaped his lips.

"Holmes…!"

I turned my head slightly, and saw two more men. Only one of these was armed, but the other looked like quite a brute. I swallowed, licking my dry lips.

"Are you armed, Watson?" I asked.

"Yes." He replied.

"Good."

My nostrils flared at the prospect of action. Under normal circumstances, I might have relished a fight. But I had strong suspicions that these men were not just after me. I could smell Hughes's stench all over this attack.

He had sent his henchmen ahead of him...to locate, and, in all probability, capture us, or at the very least rough us up a bit for him.

The ones I was facing were grinning nastily, slapping their short clubs in the palms of their hands threateningly. I waved my cane slightly and took my stance.

"Come now, we don't have all night." I said coolly.

The one on the right first rushed at me, quickly followed by the other, and I raised my stick as the first blow fell. I heard a sharp crack as the life preserver struck the stick, and I just barely had time to kick the first assailant away to free my stick to block the second's blow. I pushed him away with my cane, and when he was far enough away I swung, making contact with his jaw and sending him reeling. 

I readied myself to strike the other when I was stopped by the sound of a blow and a metallic skittering noise from behind—I knew instantly what it was. I turned to see Watson staggering back as the villain that had knocked the revolver from his hand was about to deliver a blow. I turned completely, though awkwardly, and brought my stick into clean contact with the blackguard's face.

"Holmes!" Watson cried out.

I tried to turn from my difficult position to block the attack I knew was coming, but did not make it, and a sharp pain flashed through me as one of the villain's life preservers struck my shoulder. I was forced again to turn awkwardly, but this strike was much better, and I got the thug in his chest, and with a turn of the stick I felt the heavy wood against his skull. I heard several blows behind me—gruntsof pain coming from the hired roughs. I permitted myself a small smile--That was my Watson. 

I heard more grunts and much scuffling behind me, but I could not quite turn just yet to help. I struck swiftly a few more times to the men before me. I was very fortunate that these were not very _skilled_ hired thugs.

I felt a rush of satisfaction as they fell to the cold street, and I wasted no time in turning to help Watson. 

I needn't have worried. Though a highly trained fighter he was not, he had tenacity and spirit as I have seldom seen. One of the men he had faced was unconscious on the street, and the other was helpless at the end of Watson's revolver. I clapped my Boswell on the shoulder.

"Excellent, Watson." I said. "Now I'm sure the police would love to add these fellows to their collection."

I pulled out my police-whistle and blew several sharp blasts on it. I tucked it back into my pocket, and then inspected the men that were lying on the wet street as Watson held his gun on the last.

None of them had anything on them that could be traced back to Hughes, and yet I _knew_ it was he that had sent them. Leclair certainly hadn't the resources, reason, or knowledge to do such a thing, for one. These men would go in for assault, at least, and not be able to report back to their boss. Then again, Hughes was smart enough to note the absence of their report and conclude they had found me—and lost.

I heard the swift footfalls ofa fewrunning policemen, and in a moment they had arrived at our location. I told them what had transpired andgave them my card, my hotel address and number scribbled on the back in case they needed to contact me,and they duly handcuffed them and sent for others to help haul them off.

I stepped over to where my hat had fallen off in the scuffle and lifted it from the grimy street. 

"Come, Watson," said I. "I observe the day has been rough on you, and you certainly did not need what happened this night."

* * *

**KS: Sorry for the wait. This would have been done much sooner, but people kept telling me to do stuff, and I then got distracted watching Madame Butterfly…XD**

**Don't forget to review! It's important that you do, so I have the energy to update quickly! **


	10. Thinking

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter ten of **_**On the Streets of Paris,**_** the sequel to _Brother. _We're finally on chapter ten! Goodness, I am very sorry I've been so slow with the updates. It...would be much better I'm sure, quality-wise, if I went faster. xDD It shall improve, though. Trust me. XD **

**T****his chapter starts off in Watson's POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Holmes," I began once we were in the comforting safety of the hotel once more, "Were those Leclair's men?"

Holmes was untying his necktie, having already removed his coat and waistcoat and tossed them onto the floor. He turned and looked at me, his long, nervous fingers fiddling with the knot.

"Leclair's? Yes…that seems like a good answer." he replied half-absentmindedly.

He finally got the tie undone and tossed it over the back of the sofa, disappearing into his bedroom for a moment and returning with his dressing-gown.

"You're going to stay up, aren't you?" I asked as he gathered a pillow or two from about the room, tossing them as they were collected onto the sofa.

"I must decide how we shall catch Leclair," he replied as he sat and nestled himself amongst the pillows, drawing his thin legs up and lighting his favourite pipe.

"All right," said I, "but don't exhaust yourself. Good night, Holmes."

Holmes acknowledged me with a nod and a glance, and I went off to bed. The bed, with its warmth and comfort, was extremely welcome after the long, hard day. I stretched my limbs, which were already stiffening and sore from the fight, and settled into a comfortable position, drifting off into slumber.

* * *

_**HOLMES:**_

I curled up among the cushions I had gathered, taking draught after draught off my pipe. I had a long night ahead of me. The thoughts about how to capture Leclair should not take long.

He was not a desperate criminal—no, he had no reason to be afraid of being arrested for anything. I doubt anyone in the world besides myself knew that he was connected to that string of unsolved Parisian crimes a few years back. He was not the smartest of criminals, either—just your average blackguard fresh from prison.

All I had to do was watch the public house with a few good policemen, to whom I would obviously have to give at least a few details before I could use them, and capture Leclair. After his trial and my evidence, the man would be away for at _least_ fourteen years. Bourgeois would be away for some time, too, on his crime, but I would speak on his behalf to at least get some help for his wife.

But I had to decide what to do on the matter of Jackson Hughes. The devil was coming here, and would not take that long to arrive. With virtually nothing left to live for, and the police assuredly on his tail, he would be as quick as possible in locating and killing us in some horrific way.

I could not let Watson out of my sight, and yet I was loath to bring him along with me. But it was safer for him to come along—at least I would be able to protect him myself. After this case was wrapt up, we could be on the go more often, seeing various landmarks. Hughes would have a more difficult time keeping track of us then.

Right now, I would spend all night going over as many scenarios as I could, plotting out everything for our safety and survival against this merciless devil until we could place him back into the hands of the police.

I would get no sleep to-night. And very likely, little sleep for some time to come.

* * *

Watson awoke early the next morning, and at a glance I could tell that his sleep had been a little restless. He came toward the breakfast table where I was sitting with my coffee and newspaper stiffly, limping slightly.

"That fight last night wasn't too much for you, was it?" I asked, making sure that my tone was of concern and not derision, for I knew the question could be taken the wrong way. "We don't have to go out so early if you are not up to it."

"No, Holmes. I'm fine." Watson replied, settling himself at the table and beginning on the breakfast I had already called for.

"Are we going to the police station first this morning?" he asked after he had swallowed a bite of toast.

I looked up from my paper in some surprise.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. How did you know?"

"I just thought that we would go to give a few more details about the assault last night."

"Ah," I muttered, resuming my paper. "Well, we are going, but it really wasn't for that purpose. Though, I don't doubt they will ask for particulars, as you've said."

I glanced in the bowl of my pipe, in which the tobacco was disappearing far more rapidly than I would like.

"I'm afraid we will have to find a good tobacconists to-day, also." I remarked.

Watson laughed.

"I still have some, if you need any." he offered as he cut at the ham on his plate.

"No," I smiled, "that stuff you smoke is hardly strong enough. Ever since you stopped smoking Ship's, I'm afraid you don't smoke anything to my taste."

"Well, I can hardly be blamed. After living with you for a while, one gets tired of strong tobaccos." Watson chortled.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, only diluting it slightly with sugar and a touch of milk, wanting to keep it strong.

By the time I was finished with the paper, Watson had finished his breakfasting, and I hurried off to go change from my dressing-gown into my frock-coat, and taking up our hats, gloves, and sticks, we departed.

It was, as Watson commented ardently on our exiting the hotel, what most would call quite a lovely day. It was good enough that I decided a cab was hardly needed, and we walked some ways from the hotel to reach a telegraph office.

"Holmes," Watson began before I went inside, "what are we doing here?"

"I'm sending a wire, Watson. Surely you could have deduced that yourself without any help."

"That's not what I meant. Why didn't you send a wire before we left the hotel?"

"Because, it just entered my mind," I lied. I could not tell him that it was possible that a wire might be traced to our hotel, thus leading Hughes straight to us, since I had decided not to tell him of Hughes's escape just yet.

I entered alone, and I wrote up a message telling Mycroft to send all messages to this office, to be left until called for. It was true that Hughes could still track me by this, but not so quickly. I came back out into the street to find Watson gone.

My heart leapt into my throat. I was a fool—a complete and utter fool!—to have left him yet again. Stupid man that I was! Hardly the brain I kept claiming myself to be, making the same mistake twice!

I was just about to call his name when I saw him, only a little over ten feet away, looking into a shop's front window. He smiled as he saw me and walked back over, but when he saw my face his smile faded.

"What's the matter, Holmes?" he asked.

My face, I could feel, was slightly flushed, both from fear and embarrassment.

"I was wondering where you had gone," I replied.

Watson apparently found this funny and laughed a little.

"Really, Watson, it _is_ Paris, and with someone as romantic as you, I never know _what_ you'll be distracted by. I do need my Boswell on solid ground."

"Really, Holmes…" Watson sighed as we walked along.

I slid my arm into his as we continued on, truly afraid that we would get separated, and I kept a very close eye on the crowd about us.

"What I can't understand, Holmes," Watson began as we walked, "Is why on Earth Leclair would send men after us."

"Perhaps he heard we had been inquiring after him and became suspicious…" I said absently as I scrutinised the faces of passers-by.

"Do you think he'll try to send men again?"

"It's a possibility." I replied.

Indeed, if Hughes did not make another attempt, I would be extremely surprised. Hopefully we could avoid the next one, now that I was being more vigilant.

"It's a good thing I carry arms…" Watson said, his voice lowered as he looked about.

It most certainly was.

It did not take long for us to reach the police headquarters once more, and we went inside, where Inspector Achard was waiting for us in the lobby.

"Monsieur Holmes," he said, "I received your wire this morning. You say you have particulars that I would be interested in?"

"Indeed," said I, "but I think it's best we speak in your office."

"Of course, Monsieur. This way,"

* * *

**KS: Thanks for reading! Don't forget to review! **

**I'm on spring break this week, so I will hopefully get a lot of chapters up…and hopefully at some point this story will actually get good, since I have some quite nice ideas. Sorry for the abrupt ending! xD**


	11. Meeting with Achard

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter eleven of **_**On the Streets of Paris,**_** the sequel to _Brother._ We're getting closer and closer to the good stuff, thank God. xD**

**Sorry again for the slow updates!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_**MYCROFT**_

I read the report I had received from Scotland Yard, afterward crumpling it up and tossing it into the wastebasket beside my desk.

Despite their "untiring vigilance," as it had been worded in the letter, they had failed to capture Hughes as he fled the country. How hard was it to watch the boat train? How _difficult_ was it to watch the ferry? That villain that had such a strong, passionate nature, and had such a strong vendetta against my brother and the Doctor, was now freely on his way to France.

I hoped Sherlock had the good sense to lie low and cover his tracks until the police could recapture Hughes.

But I doubted very much that this would be so.

Sherlock would _undoubtedly_ try to recapture Hughes on his own, possibly even inflicting a bit of his own revenge for what Hughes had put he and the Doctor through a few months ago. Whatever he did, though, I knew he would have the doctor's safety at first priority. He would unfortunately give no thought to his own life.

And that is what worried me.

* * *

_**WATSON**_

Inspector Achard, as tall and thin as ever, led us back once more to his office in the great Parisian police headquarters. Holmes followed him, and I Holmes, and Achard waved us coldly into the chairs before his desk.

"What sort of 'particulars' do you have to share, M. Holmes?" Achard asked, his tone reminding me very much of the way the inspectors at Scotland Yard would speak to my friend when I had first met him.

"Do you remember the string of robberies at train stations in '81?" Holmes asked, pulling out a cigarette and raising it as if to ask if it was all right to smoke. Achard nodded.

"Yes, I remember it." Achard replied.

"And the burglary of M. Pelletier's home, and subsequent assault?

"I remember that as well. What are you getting at?"

Holmes took a draught off of his cigarette, extinguishing the match and tossing it into a tray.

"What if I told you I could put into your hands the very man that committed those crimes?"

I saw the inspector's severe face brighten as much as a face like his could manage at the words.

"Pardon me, Monsieur?" he asked incredulously.

"That's right. They were perpetrated by one man—occasionally, I am sure, with a bit of bought help. I believe I can give him into your capable hands."

Achard thought on this a moment.

"Girard would be furious if he knew—those were his cases." Achard's eye narrowed a little in thought as he turned his questioning gaze upon us.

"How do you propose to capture this man?"

"I know the public house he frequents. It is a simple matter of waiting with a few good men."

"Will you not tell me who he is?"

"I think it's better as a surprise."

Achard furrowed his brow at my friend, and then raised an eyebrow with a dubious glance.

"I'm sorry, Inspector, but it is in my nature to be a touch theatrical." said Holmes, "I assure you, however, that you will get your man, and I have ample evidence to arrest upon."

The dark-haired Frenchman's lips pursed as he considered whether to trust this singularly outré English detective.

"How many men will you need?"

Holmes smiled as he raised his cigarette to his lips, leaning back in his chair.

"Three policemen should take care of things,"

I sat back in my chair as Holmes calmly explained a few things to the inspector, detailing also his plans for the capture; and I watched as respect and wonder at my friend's theories leaked through the cracks in Achard's cold countenance.

"All right, M. Holmes," Achard said when my friend was finished, "We will be ready for you to-night. But if what you say is false, then I assure you, all the blame will fall onto your shoulders."

"Oh, there's no chance of that," said Holmes as he stood. "I shall return at half-past five, inspector. Have your men ready by then."

We turned to leave and Holmes had his hand on the door when Achard spoke again.

"Of course, M. Holmes. We will be ready by then. Do you want a four-wheeler ready?"

"Ready, but out of sight, for if our man scents the police and runs, it may take more time to catch him than I am able to give right now," Holmes said severely. "Good bye, Inspector Achard."

We departed from the police station into the lovely day, and Holmes looked all around on our exit.

"Watson," he said, turning to me with a slight smile on his thin face, "I propose we spend the rest of the day at one of Paris' excellent art galleries."

"You and your powers of detachment, Holmes," I laughed. "I'll never understand them."

"And I'll never understand your romanticised accounts of these criminal pursuits," said he with a slight jesting smile. "Now come, Watson. Let the artists take your mind from the dark events awaiting us to-night."

We took a cab to a nearby museum, where they had on display both works of the old masters and pieces by new artists. Holmes and I walked through, and my friend was quick to offer his critical opinions of each piece in a voice that was a bit too loud for the setting.

"Holmes," I whispered to him, "people are starting to stare."

He stopped his analysis of the piece we were currently examining and gave me an innocent look.

"At what?" he asked.

"At _us._ You are being a bit too loud. You'll get us thrown out."

Holmes's sharp grey eyes scanned across the crowd, then settled on me with a smile.

"I believe they are just jealous of my superior opinions on art," he said jestingly. "Come, Watson, I want to see these down here." he added, taking my arm in his and leading me down the corridor.

* * *

**KS: Short chapter! It would have already been up, but the internet was being irritating. The next chapter, HOPEFULLY to be posted to-night, shall make up for this one's brevity and lack of material. xD**

**Things are not going precisely as planned, but everything should be getting very good soon. X3**

**Please, review!! I'll give a reward fic for this chapter if you do! (And make sure it's not a review just ASKING for the reward ficlet—whatever you say has to pertain to the story. XD )**


	12. Dogged

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter twelve of **_**On the Streets of Paris,**_** the sequel to _Brother. _I'm finally getting close to where I have been trying to go--so enjoy!**

**This one starts in Holmes's POV.**

* * *

I was fairly certain we weren't being followed at the moment, but I did fear I overdid it just a bit. I shouldn't have raised my volume as high as I did—I nearly forgot our purpose here: to mix in with the crowds for safety's sake until to-night. Hughes would hardly dare strike in a place like this, and certainly his blackguard roughs couldn't touch us here. But who knew what sort of connections Hughes might have had?

I displayed none of my concern, and veiled my ever-constant vigilance over the crowd so that Watson could not suspect that anything was amiss. If he did ask, I might just write it off as attempts of Leclair's men again. I didn't like to lie to him, but I did not want him to worry. I watched the faces of passers-by more than I was looking at the art, but Watson thankfully did not notice.

It took a few hours to look through the majority of the gallery. I had known it wouldn't take long, and I tried to make the time pass more slowly by giving my criticisms on each piece, but we were back out on the street long before our appointment with the inspector. I did not want to stay in the same place for too long, nor did I like being so out in the open, so I decided that we would go someplace else.

"Where would you like to go next, Watson?" I asked.

"How far is L'Arc de Triomphe?" he replied.

I wasn't sure if I liked that idea. It was too open.

"What about the Louvre?" I asked. "You said yesterday that you would like to see it."

"All right," Watson smiled.

Good man…so quick to acquiesce to my suggestions.

I hailed a cab—it was a little too far to walk from our current position, even on so nice a day—and we rattled off toward the famous art museum to spend the rest of the hours until our appointment.

* * *

_**WATSON**_

I was quite tired out by the time we needed to return to the headquarters of the Paris police force. I had not the energy or stamina of my companion, and I wondered why we were going about the city instead of resting before a night time vigil as we usually did.

After leaving the Louvre we took a cab and reached the headquarters at half-past five exactly. Inspector Achard was awaiting us there with three men and a four-wheeler, and Holmes told the policemen to go on ahead in the cart and wait about one street over, out of the way, and out of sight, and to await the signal of the police whistle. Achard was to come with us, armed, to await our man.

I thought that perhaps Holmes should say something about not knowing Leclair's regular days, but Holmes seemed so sure that I almost suspected that he knew something I didn't. That would not be too unusual, but occasionally I did wish he would let me in on some of his findings and thoughts. There was just something about the man's masterful nature that made him loath to communicate such things before their proper time, however, and I had gotten quite used to the fact.

Holmes, Achard, and I took another four-wheeler to a spot a little ways from our destination and alighted, going the rest of the way carefully on foot. Achard was asking no questions and acting quite in accordance with the silent obedience Holmes loved to get from officials.

We made our way to the public house, arriving at about six o'clock, and waited, huddling deep within the damp shadows of a nearby alley. Holmes seemed to make absolutely certain that our backs were to a wall, and that we could see anyone that approached from any direction.

We waited in relative silence. We heard the men, and occasionally women, in the building across from us, drinking and singing with other sorts of drunken merrymaking, and in the distance I heard similar sounds, as well as the occasional clopping of horses' hooves. More than once a man passed in and out of the doors of the tavern, much worse obviously for drink than when they had entered.

The shadows we hid in lengthened and deepened as the sun crawled across the sky, on its final leg toward the horizon, and Holmes seemed to grow a little impatient as night was finally settling in.

Finally, we heard the sharp sound of footsteps in the empty street. Holmes's attention was firmly arrested, and we all looked in the direction of the noise. A man, difficult to see from this distance, was approaching. As he drew closer, just before I could fully see him, I heard Holmes give a quick, quiet intake of breath.

"Inspector," he whispered softly, "That is our man."

"Are you sure?" Achard whispered back. "I can hardly see him."

"I am sure." Holmes replied, leaning forward, his sharp features intense with concentration as he peered into the darkness.

"All right, then. M. Holmes, you make your first move."

I saw a slight smile on my companion's face even in the dim light. He waited until Leclair was past, and then walked up silently behind him. Finally, when he was within ten feet of the door, Holmes laid a thin hand firmly upon his shoulder.

"Pardonne moi, monsieur." My friend said, his voice sharp and clear.

Leclair spun around quickly, and as soon as Holmes saw his face, he was wrestling him to the ground. It was hardly a match, and Holmes had control over him by the time Achard and I reached them.

"Je ne le crois pas!" Achard exclaimed. "Édouard Leclair!"

"Here, Inspector, you might hold him while I call for the others."

Achard knelt down to take hold of his dirty captive, who was speaking vehemently in French—the words were coming too quickly for me to fully comprehend, but the ones I could catch would be unsavoury even to a sailor. Soon, his small hands were manacled, and Holmes blew three piercing blasts on the police whistle.

We heard the rattle of the wheels of the four-wheeler as it came quickly, and Holmes hauled our catch to his feet. He threw a few more colourful French oaths at each of us, and spat in Holmes's direction.

Holmes avoided being spat upon, and looked at Leclair with his usual, calm demeanour. As the police stepped out of the carriage, Leclair asked something—his accent prevented me from fully understanding him, but I understood decently that he was asking on what charges he was being taken in on.

Holmes replied calmly, naming the string of crimes and robberies he had committed that no one had known the culprit of, and Leclair's face flushed. He started a new string of oaths, more violently delivered than the last, and Holmes calmly turned to the policemen.

"Take him away." He said.

"M. Holmes, this is incredible. Could it really have been Leclair? But, now that you say it…it does make sense." Achard thought for a moment, turning to watch as Leclair was loaded into the four-wheeler. He then turned back to my companion, his face as plain and emotionless as ever, his nose high in the air, but when he spoke, there was a distinct tone of respect in his crisp voice.

"M. Holmes, you have done a service for our country, and we thank you."

"It was nothing, Inspector, and I hope you enjoy the credit." said Holmes with a wave of his hand. "I will stop by your office to-morrow and give you more details."

"I see, M. Holmes. We will take him in. I expect you want to go back to your hotel…?"

"Indeed," Holmes replied, much to my relief. "Good night, Inspector."

"Good night, M. Holmes."

* * *

_**HOLMES**_

Watson and I turned away from the austere French inspector, I fully intending on returning to our hotel for the night. I had not meant to tire Watson so thoroughly, but it could not be helped. We could not stay in the same place for too long.

The backstreets of Paris were dark, low, and, for the most part, empty. I started to think about what excuse I would give Watson for my not sleeping to-night—for, indeed, I wouldn't be able to knowing that Hughes might appear at any time—when a slight movement in the shadows seemed to catch my eye.

I slipped my arm through Watson's.

It might have just been pure nervousness. I had been on high alert ever since Mycroft had sent the first warning telegram, and had been scrutinising every shadow. But my ears seemed to perk as I heard a slight noise.

My grip on Watson's arm tightened.

I sped my pace up a little—not too much, but it was noticeable. I heard something else now. It was faint, but my keen hearing distinctly heard a muffled footfall. It still could have been nerves…I could have been over thinking.

But no.

My instincts were against it totally.

Someone was following us.

My heart rate increased, and I huffed through my nose as I pulled Watson into an even faster pace, and he stumbled slightly as he tried to fall into step with my longer legs.

Nerves or not, I would rather look a fool than to chance it.

Now, after another moment, I was certain of it. I heard the steps fall quicker, harder. I saw vague shadows from the corner of my eyes. We were definitely being followed. I thought it was only one man by the sound, but I couldn't be certain. Now was the time where I could not let my vigilance down for even a moment—I could not allow us to be cornered, nor could I let us get too far away from help if we so needed it. I tried to steer us toward what I knew was a main street.

"W—What are you doing, Holmes…!!" Watson gasped as we marched along quickly.

"Shh, Watson! For your life, don't say a word!" I hissed back.

The steps behind us grew quicker and louder—the man was becoming far less concerned with being heard, now that it was obvious he had _been_ heard. Our pursuer now broke into a run. My eyes widened, and my heart began to pound in my breast.

I pulled harder on my friend's arm, drawing him likewise into a run. We tore through the backstreets, a thin layer of perspiration forming on my brow. We had to lose him, or else we would not be able to return to our hotel for the night. We had to lose him, or else our lives could very well be in danger. I felt Watson stumble once more, and I prayed that he could hold on and keep up for just a little longer.

He was armed…but I hoped to God we wouldn't need it just yet.

* * *

_**WATSON**_

My breath now came more quickly, and I was becoming thoroughly exhausted as Holmes dragged me along. My heart was beating rapidly; I had no idea what we were running from, but fear pushed energy into my veins, and I tried to keep in step with my swift friend.

He was leading me on the most twisted route, and it dawned on me—we were being followed. There was no other way to explain it, and as I ran I thought I could hear the heavy footfalls of another over our own.

Who on Earth could be dogging us now? We had arrested Leclair, was it one of his men out for vengeance? No, that was impossible. Or, rather, too improbable. Especially considering the violence with which Holmes was tugging at my arm.

Was Holmes just going out of his mind? He had been acting extremely peculiar all day. No—I heard the running steps behind me ringing louder now. Our pursuer drew closer. I nearly fell over as Holmes jerked me to one side, leading me down an alley and toward a main street. When we had come upon it Holmes hesitated for only a slight moment, and when he had spotted a lone cab rolling slowly along the street he gave an unintelligible cry of thanks, and he sprinted toward it with me in tow.

"_CAB_!" he shouted.

The cabman stopped, turning toward us questioningly, and he had no time to speak or act before both of us leapt up into the seats.

"_Drive!!_" Holmes shouted in French, and in an instant the somewhat dazed cabby whipped up his horse, and we were speeding down the street, escaping whatever person had been pursuing us.

Holmes looked back, pulling his head back into the cab and leaning back with an immense sigh of relief.

"Watson," he breathed, "Are you all right? I fear I was a little too quick for you, but it was quite necessary."

"What was it?" I gasped. "Who was following us?"

Holmes was still regaining his composure.

"One moment, my dear Watson," he said. He leaned out of the cab again, telling the cabman more quietly the name of our hotel, and to go a rather twisted route to it. He slid back into his seat and looked at me, surveying me thoroughly with his keen, grey eyes. They seemed a little tired, and I saw that his face was rather more pale than usual, and he looked worn with worry.

"My dear…Watson." he said slowly, concern lining his features, "I am afraid we are in grave danger."

* * *

**KS: There we go. That's chapter twelve. Much longer than the last, you can see! Thank you for reading, and review if you want to see chapter thirteen!**


	13. Chess

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter thirteen of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to _Brother. _Stick with me, I would've had two chapters up to-day, but unseen events led me to...have to babysit. Moreso than usual. xD**

**I'll stay up as late as I can to see if I can get the next chapter up, too!**

**This one starts in Holmes's POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

I had told Watson that it was best for us to wait to discuss things until we had reached the hotel, so the rest of the ride in the cab was spent in uncomfortable, nervous silence.

Now we were back in our rooms, glad for what warmth they held, for the ordeal we had just been through had left us rather chilled somehow. I poured a glass of brandy for Watson, knowing he'd need it in just a moment, and then poured a little for myself. I took the glasses over to where Watson was already seated, smoking his pipe, and I handed one to him. I sat in the chair opposite and pulled out my own pipe, filling and lighting it. After I had taken a few draughts from it I felt much more braced for what I was about to do.

But I still did not like the thought of having to tell Watson I had withheld information—and even lied—to keep him in the dark, especially not over something like this. I took a sip of the brandy.

"Watson," I began. "We are in danger now."

"So you said in the cab. But what is it?"

I hesitated for just a moment.

"…A few days ago, Jackson Hughes escaped from prison."

As soon as the name escaped my lips, I saw Watson stiffen.

"How…did you find out? When did you find out?" he asked.

"Do you remember the telegram I received?"

He did not reply. I saw his eyes widen with realisation.

"Mycroft sent me the news." I continued. "I decided that it would be best if I just kept my eyes open."

"Why didn't you tell me, Holmes?" Watson asked.

"I…"

I paused a moment to examine the brandy still in my glass.

"I did not want to you have to worry about it just yet."

Watson pondered on this a moment.

"But wait. What of the other telegram…?"

I had hoped he wouldn't ask about that one…but I knew everything had to come out now.

"That was also Mycroft. He informed me that Hughes had slipped past Scotland Yard and is on his way to France."

Watson stared at me, his face a little pale and cold—expressionless.

"So he could be here now."

"Yes. It is possible."

"You should have told me, Holmes." he said finally. "If both of our lives are in danger, then I think we should both be on the lookout."

"I just did not want you to worry."

"I know."

There was yet another silence, and we smoked and sipped at our brandy.

"Those men that attacked us…they weren't Leclair's men, were they?" Watson asked as he stared into the fireplace.

"No."

"Hired men?"

"Most likely. Or a favour Hughes called in."

"What are your plans, Holmes?"

I leaned back in my chair, having emptied the tumbler of brandy, and smoked as I looked up at the ceiling.

"The Yard seems to be taking a deucedly long time to get the details of the escape to the French police. For now, I think it would be best if we lie low for a while. That's why I didn't let us return to the hotel to-day. I don't want to have to be here unless necessary, so that we have a lesser chance of being tracked."

"Which is why I'm so dreadfully tired."

I gave him a small smile.

"It really was quite necessary to be on our feet the entire day, lest something—or someone, rather—overtake us. The telegraph I sent this morning was to Mycroft—I said that it was because I had forgot to send it before we left, but it was really a message to him to send all messages to that office, and not to the hotel."

"So Hughes could not trace the message from your brother to you?"

"From my brother to _us._ Correct. If he does find that my messages are going to that office, he will have to do little more than wait nearby and follow us to a secluded spot, but…I am hoping to be far too vigilant to allow him to do so. We cannot let our guard down for a moment. Hughes is a desperate man, Watson. He wants little more now than to put a bullet through our hearts at the first chance he gets. Or worse."

"Worse?"

"For a proud man like him to go to prison and be so ruined, he may want to make us suffer more somehow."

"Just like when he was torturing—when he had captured us."

I did not fail to notice when Watson had checked himself. The subject was still rather painful in his memory, as it was in mine. I had no desire to see Watson so brutally handled ever again. Nor did I wish him to see me treated in the shameful fashion I had been. I still remembered the expression of utter helplessness and pain on his features when Hughes was beating me.

"Are we not going to try to recapture him ourselves?" Watson asked with a raised eyebrow, breaking into my thoughts.

My fingers played uncertainly on the stem of my pipe. Watson knew that I would want to go after Hughes. But…I did not want to put him in that position. Indeed, I had very little idea what Hughes would have up his sleeve this time, and to charge out in the open looking for him was a very poor idea. It was better to let him try a few things first.

I looked up at Watson, who was still eyeing me questioningly.

"It's difficult to say." I replied. "Hughes may try anything, and as unpredictable as he was before—"

"You are afraid of what he may do now."

"I am. It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognise danger when it is close upon you. And I do not want to unnecessarily draw you out into that danger. Especially when even I cannot tell what shape the danger will take."

"I will not let you go after Hughes on your own." Watson said firmly, his expression set in unmoving loyalty.

"I did not say that I was going to go after him."

Watson looked at me with some surprise.

"What?" he asked.

I sighed.

"To go now would be to play directly into his hands. He has given me no chance to retaliate as of yet. We cannot play the game on his terms, for the wager is indeed certain death, and with your life on the table I don't dare play at the current odds. We will lie low until I know what he is planning."

Watson sat back in his chair, his pipe in his mouth, and seemed to think on this.

"It will be difficult." he said.

"Indeed." I replied. "But with caution, we should have very little trouble."

I stood, knocking the ash out of my pipe.

"I think, Watson, that you should get some rest. You look thoroughly done."

"So do you," Watson said. "You are going to bed, also."

"No, I need to stay awake. One of us should be to keep watch, and I observe you're too tired."

"I'm not so tired that I cannot keep watch with you," said Watson.

"I cannot have you falling asleep on me to-morrow, Watson," I said. "You must go and get some rest. I will be fine."

"I think, Holmes," Watson began, "that after you deceived me, I am allowed to stay up with you."

I stared at him a moment through the smoke of my now relit pipe.

"If you really wish to sit up with me, then I cannot stop you." I said.

Watson smiled at his victory.

"Why don't we play chess to pass the time?" he asked.

"You brought a chess set along?" I inquired, a bit surprised.

"No, I found one in the drawers in my room."

"Well, I suppose we could play." I said.

Watson smiled at me as he stood, and went to fetch it. He returned with it—a rather nice one—and we set it up. We began to play, proceeding through the game for some minutes without speaking.

"Check," said I, moving my queen into position.

Watson began to castle.

"You can't do that—look."

Watson's brow furrowed with thought, and then he moved, managing safely to get out of check—for the moment. I made another move.

"Checkmate." I said, knocking over his king.

"Holmes, I've told you, that's rude,"

"What is?"

"Knocking over my king! I'm supposed to do it—it shows good sportsmanship. If _you_ do it, it's quite rude."

"It doesn't matter, as long as it's tipped over."

"Did you do that to Mycroft?" Watson asked, suppressing a yawn.

"Yes, I did. It always drove him mad." I said, letting a mischievous smile play across my face. "You know, you're usually more of a challenge than this. That was terrible, my dear Watson."

"Another game?" Watson said, pointedly ignoring my comment and nearly yawning again as he set the board back up.

I nodded my acquiescence and we began to play a new game.

"I wish you had told me about Hughes earlier." Watson said as he moved his pawn forward.

"I merely wanted you to enjoy the trip. I didn't want you to have to fear for your neck until it was really necessary." I moved my piece.

"I know, I know. But what would I have told the police if you had ended up being murdered?"

"I'm sure if I get murdered, you'll see Hughes do it." I said as I moved a knight.

Watson stopped and looked at me.

"Holmes, don't say that." He said.

"Don't say what?"

"Don't put it like that. I…don't know what I'd do if you were murdered. I certainly couldn't survive witnessing your murder."

I could see by his face he was very much in earnest about what he had said. I felt a little uncomfortable, not knowing how to reply. I looked down at my king and ran my finger along the carvings before looking back at him.

"I don't think the likelihood is great enough that we shall have to worry about it, Watson. We shall be vigilant. Until Hughes shows himself enough for us to spot where he is vulnerable, we lie low."

Watson moved a piece.

"Don't worry, Watson," I said, my tone a bit softer. "We will have this all sorted out soon enough. It will not be like the last time. I promise you that."

My friend looked up at me, meeting my eyes and giving me a small, tired smile.

"Check."

I glanced down at the board in some surprise. Watson's remark had distracted me enough to allow him a small opening, and he had taken it quite astutely.

I moved my king out of danger, and smiled at my Boswell.

I would die before I let Hughes have his revenge on him.

* * *

**KS: D'aww...fluffyish sort of end to that one. Please forgive me for it's brevity...it IS nearly 2,000 words, but I really meant for it to be more. I really, really am sorry. xD**

**Like I said, I'll stay up! I am trying. It will get better. (I hope.)**

**Review, please!**


	14. Brawl

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter fourteen of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. Finally, a new chapter! Long enough, too. XDD**

**This one starts in Watson****'s POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Watson," I heard a voice say.

I felt a thin hand shaking my shoulder, and I rolled over a bit. I was so tired! Why wouldn't they leave me alone?

"Just…a few more minutes…" I muttered, hoping that would satisfy the person who was—annoyingly enough—trying to rouse me from my peaceful slumber.

"Watson, wake up." The voice said again. My brain registered it clearly as the voice of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

I ignored it.

Then, I remembered that I was _supposed _to be awake, and I sat up with a start.

"H-Holmes, what…what time is it?" I asked quickly.

I saw through my bleary eyes as Holmes smiled as he pulled out his watch.

"Thirty minutes past eight. Rather early for you, I know, and I apologise," he said, moving past me to the coffee pot. "We must get a head start on the day."

"Did I fall asleep?" I asked, pushing the blanket off of me—which, obviously, had been placed there at some point during the night by Holmes.

"Excellent deduction, my dear Watson," my friend replied as he looked back at me. "You began to nod off at about half-past two, and I suggested you lay down on the sofa for a while. You agreed—as tired as you were, you could barely even have qualified as conscious—and you fell asleep."

"I'm very sorry, Holmes," said I, "I didn't intend to."

"If you had stayed in that chair, you would have fallen in the floor," my friend replied as he stirred his coffee. "So badly off were you that once you mistook your rook for your knight."

I laughed.

"I really have no recollection of it whatsoever."

"Indeed? Well, at least you are rested now."

Holmes sat in the armchair opposite me and drew his long legs up into it. I was glad to see that he was having a bit of toast with his coffee.

"Where would you like to go to-day, Watson? Keep in mind our situation." he asked.

"It is hardly something one can forget." I remarked. A thought struck me. "Are we still going to the opera to-night?"

I saw Holmes hesitate as he was bringing his coffee to his lips.

"Perhaps that is not the wisest idea, Watson." He said. His grey eyes met mine. "You do remember, of course, the story of the assassination of Lincoln as he sat watching a show?"

His eyebrows rose as he peered at me over his cup.

"I don't think that's very likely to happen, Holmes."

"Oh, you never know. Hughes may find it amusing to murder us in such a way."

"But if we are careful?"

"If we are _very_ careful, we may still be able to go see it. Nothing is certain yet. Where else would you like to go?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. You decide." I said finally. I wasn't sure what sort of places he really would think suitable for two men to go who were essentially on the run.

"Oh, if you like." said Holmes, and I could see that my answer pleased him.

He brushed the crumbs of toast from his lap as he stood, and placed his cup upon the table.

"Get yourself ready, Watson," he said, going toward his room, "We want to depart as soon as possible."

* * *

"What does he say?" I asked as Holmes opened the telegram.

We had stopped by the office to which Mycroft was to send his messages, and we were now inside. We had found one waiting, which my friend was now reading. He finished, and handed it to me.

ALL PARTICULARS NOW IN THE HANDS OF THE FRENCH POLICE STOP DO NOT DO ANYTHING RASH STOP IF YOU SPOT HUGHES TELL OFFICIALS STOP

MYCROFT

"It is the worry of an elder brother," Holmes said when I handed it back to him. He shoved it into his inner pocket as we stepped back out onto the pavement.

"You did bring your revolver with you?" my friend asked in a low voice as his eyes scrutinised the faces all around us, searching for anything suspicious.

"Of course," I replied.

"Good. Come, Watson."

We walked off, keeping close and watching our surroundings. We had agreed before we left the hotel that we would not discuss destinations or plans openly as we were about to-day, for danger of being overheard.

As we walked, I spotted a park to our right.

"Holmes," I said, "What about a stroll in the park?"

My friend stopped and seemed to consider it in his head, his eyes quickly going over the landscape of the small, green park.

"It seems all right…" he said slowly. "Fine. We'll take a stroll, then. Come, Watson!" he said, taking my arm and pulling me into stride with his long legs.

Sometimes I wondered how he could have so much energy after not sleeping for two days.

The day was excellent, just as yesterday had been, and a cool breeze brushed our faces as we walked along the path. Young couples were scattered about, strolling or picnicking and enjoying their picturesque spring Sunday. I felt, though, as if I could not fully enjoy it with the heavy burden on my mind. My life was in danger—even at this seemingly calm moment.

"Do you see that couple over yonder?" Holmes asked, nudging me lightly and motioning with his cane.

"Yes," I replied, "What of them?"

Holmes smiled—I knew he was trying now to take my mind off of the current situation.

"The young man…he's a clerk at a bank, and is hoping for a promotion. The young woman does typing for extra money. They are newly wed, and are hoping to soon have a child."

"It never ceases to amaze me that you can tell these things from such a distance. Sometimes I think you just make things up as you go." I said with a smile.

Holmes began to give me an indignant look, but saw my smile, and a tight one soon spread over his own face.

"Then observe that man over there under the tree, the one that is conversing with the young lady. He's closer. He's an artist, but is being rather unsuccessful. Can you see my reasoning?" he cocked an eyebrow at me.

"Well…" I started, narrowing my eyes a little to focus on the man. "I think I see a little paint on his hands, and a little on his shirt sleeve cuff. But of the lack of success I don't see how you came to that conclusion."

Holmes smiled, tapping his cane on the ground as he chuckled lightly.

"It's simple," said he, "Let me explain…"

* * *

Sherlock Holmes and I spent the day well, and everything we did, we did it with extreme care. After a lovely stroll in the park, during which Holmes kept me sufficiently entertained with his deductions and observations, we went to another art gallery, and then had luncheon at a café. We saw a few sights, but no matter what we did, we always have a vague feeling of impending danger. It was now late afternoon, and we were trying to figure out something to do until we went back to the hotel.

"I have seen no one suspicious to-day, Watson," said Holmes as we stood on the pavement at a street corner, "but that does not mean we have not been followed."

He looked at me with a smile in his eyes.

"Do you still want to go see that opera?" he said, so softly that I was hardly able to hear him.

"If you think that we can," I replied, just as quietly.

"Excellent," my friend said. "Then, let us go."

We took a cab to the opera house, Holmes being careful not to directly call out our destination, and when we had arrived we were extremely cautious as to what seats we took.

The opera that was playing to-night was "Les Huguenots." We had seen it once before, some time after the case of Sir Henry Baskerville and the ghastly hound of Stapleton, but I thought it would be interesting to see it in an actual French opera house.

Some time through the opera I looked over at my friend and saw that he was not quite paying attention to the music. His grey eyes, normally glittering with pleasure at a time like this, were darting about, keeping a close watch on everything about us. Not infrequently he would discreetly turn his head and glance at the people behind us.

Fortunately we were able to see the entire thing without a single incident, and when we left the theatre, it was after dark. Holmes took my arm in his—something he had been doing far more than usual, to ensure our staying close together for safety—and we began to walk.

"I hope you're not too tired, Watson." Holmes said after a while of our walking in silence.

"No, not at all. I rather enjoyed to-day…as much as I _could,_ under the circumstances."

"Good," said my friend as again he looked around us.

We came up to place where an alleyway met the pavement, and Holmes naturally pulled me closer to the street, even going onto it, to keep us away from such a natural place of possible ambush. But after we passed it Holmes stopped, his face suddenly intent.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked in a whisper after a moment.

My friend, however, said nothing in reply. He turned his head slowly and looked behind us into the dark alley we had just walked past.

"Oh…God…" he muttered.

I saw his eyes flash, and in an instant he had released me and stepped back quickly to peer into the dark opening. Indecision passed over his face, and he spun around to face me.

"Watson…!!" he gasped.

He hesitated a moment again. I could tell by the conflict waging war on his features that he wanted desperately to go and investigate, but he did not want to put me in that danger.

"Watson…" he said quietly, quickly walking up to me and grasping me quite firmly by the arm, "…come."

We started going at quite a brisk pace now. It wasn't a run, or even nearly that, but it was enough that I wished that Holmes would release my arm. It was difficult to keep a steady walk when you were being pulled along by someone with such a different stride than you.

Holmes kept flashing glances all around, not even trying to be discreet about it now, and was constantly looking over his shoulder. He finally released my arm, but seemed a little reluctant about it.

"Be prepared to draw your revolver if necessary," said my friend quietly. "Hughes's men are very likely armed."

The street we were on seemed suddenly to be deserted, leaving us alone as the shadows themselves seemed to be out for our blood. My heart was pounding within my breast. I did not know what Holmes had seen or heard, but it had made him much excited. And that was something to be nervous about.

"We cannot return to the hotel," Holmes whispered toward my ear as we marched along. "We will most certainly be traced, and this time, there are no cabs to make our getaway in."

"So what do we do?" I asked, mimicking his low volume.

"…We can try to lose our pursuer in the alleys."

"The alleys?" I breathed.

Holmes nodded.

"When I pull on your arm again, follow me in a _full run_. Do not stop for _anything_. Not even me, if I should for some reason fall behind."

I nodded, though I certainly didn't think that I could leave Holmes behind in any event that we should be separated. I could not think it. But I had little time to ponder when, as we reached the next opening into an alleyway, Holmes tugged sharply at my arm.

We burst off at full speed down the passage, I following closely at my companion's heels. He was a much faster man than I, but fear and necessity made me fly—and, I daresay that Holmes was not going his full pace.

We twisted and turned through all sorts of backstreets and black spaces, and I quickly grew short of breath. My thoughts were wandering to how long I could keep going, and I did not see the small hole in the road.

I stepped right into it, and my ankle twisted sharply. I fell with a cry to the dirty street, and Holmes, ignoring his own orders not to stop for anything, stopped dead in his tracks, turning as quickly as he could given his velocity and rushed back to me.

"Can you stand, Watson? Are you all right?" he gasped.

"I think so," I replied, swiftly attempting to get to my feet.

It was extremely difficult, but with Holmes's sinewy arm for support, I managed. I could tell by how it felt that it was a fairly bad sprain. Running on it would not be good, nor easy.

But staying in one place wasn't an option.

"Come on, Watson!" Holmes gasped, taking off again.

I had my arm around his thin shoulders now, and we were hobbling along as fast as we could…which, unfortunately, wasn't as fast as we had been going. The pace was playing havoc on my wounded ankle, not to mention stealing all the breath from me.

"Holmes," I gasped, "I can't keep up like this!"

His eyes darted over me quickly with concern, scrutinising my condition. The grey orbs then flashed about, searching for options—for now, we both distinctly heard heavy footfalls aproaching behind us.

"There," he gasped. "The public house."

He pulled me toward the sordid-looking establishment. Indeed, at the time, it did seem like our only option. There would be plenty of witnesses there at this time of night. The only problem that might arise is…if any of Hughes's own men were in there.

We burst through the door, and with that and our awkward positioning of cripple and crutch, every eye in the house was upon us. I took my arm from Holmes's shoulder and followed my friend as he stepped up to the bar.

"Two glasses of beer, landlord." Holmes said calmly in French to the man behind it.

The landlord handed the drinks over the bar, and as Holmes raised the glass to his lips, four sturdy-looking men burst through the doors. Their dark eyes, situated under low, angry brows, scanned the room until they fell upon us.

"It seems as if our guests have arrived." said Holmes.

"Surely they wouldn't try anything here?" I asked.

"I'm sure they will," my friend replied. "This isn't exactly a fine, upstanding place of safety."

The men made their way over to us, glowering with fierce eyes. We had given them a fine chase, but it was obvious that it would end in a battle. I wondered how well I would fare with my now twisted ankle.

"You Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" one of the men asked in an accent that was vaguely English.

"I am. You were sent by Mr. Hughes, no doubt?"

"We don't talk about who hired us. We do our job, get our pay, and that's the end of it."

"And pray, what is your job?"

"To catch you and your friend here—alive."

"Interesting," said Holmes. "How do you propose to go about doing it?"

For answer the large man swung an abrupt punch at Holmes, who deftly manoeuvred out of the way. My spry friend then sent a quick, solid jab at the man's stomach, and when it landed the man's air left his lungs in a gasp.

Perhaps they hadn't been expecting such a thin man to be such a skilled boxer.

I nearly smiled, but that one punch was hardly enough to cow the broad blackguards, and I prepared myself as one came at me.

He threw a wide-swinging left, and I had to shift my weight onto my bad ankle, and grimaced as the pain shot up my leg. I had avoided the punch, though, and I shifted quickly back onto the other foot. I threw a few good punches, landing two, and after a moment of our bout the whole place seemed to be in an uproar of fisticuffs.

Our opponents seemed to be more skilled than the last that attacked us, but despite this and the fact that we were outnumbered, the fight seemed almost even. It didn't hurt that occasionally one of our opponents would get mixed up with fighting another of the tavern's patrons.

I looked over to see how my friend was doing, and I saw that now _he_ was fighting with a somewhat drunken young Frenchman. Holmes seemed to be enjoying himself almost, but I had little time to watch him, as I had to duck as a glass bottle nearly flew at my head.

* * *

Holmes leaned back against the bar, observing the scene around him with a slight smile on his face as he took a sip from his glass.

"I hardly think this is funny, Holmes," I said as I perched myself on a barstool.

"No? Perhaps not entirely. But we just survived what could have possibly been a fight of deadly consequence because of the fact that the rest of the people wanted a part in a good bout."

My friend emptied his glass and sat it upon the bar, placing a few coins next to it. He turned to the landlord and muttered his apologies for the mess, explaining that he might want to get a constable to take the four men that now lay unconscious on the floor. He then turned to me.

"Come, Watson, I think we're done here for the night."

We warily made our way through the backstreets and eventually found a cab, to my utmost thankfulness, and we made it to our hotel without further incident. I was extremely grateful to be once again in the relative safety of those rooms, and I sat down heavily in an armchair.

"Would you like me to call for some ice for your ankle?" Holmes asked me.

"Yes, but I think you had better call for some for your own injuries," I said, pointing to the bruises upon his face that I could now see very clearly in the good light of the hotel room.

Holmes took the silver coffee pot from the table and examined himself in it.

"Well, look at that. That will be a nasty looking bunch of bruises to-morrow, eh, Watson?" he said, flashing a smile back to me as he sat it down again.

"A smoke and a bag of ice for the both of us, then." he continued, ringing the bell. He turned back to face me. "And you are sleeping to-night. You did not get enough last night, and you look as if you are about to faint."

"To-day's events didn't help any." I said, taking the cigar he offered. "But you really should sleep also, Holmes. It isn't healthy to exhaust yourself like this."

"No, you're probably right. But it isn't good for one's health to be shot in their sleep, either, and I'm more worried about that right now."

Holmes sat heavily into the chair opposite me and lit his own cigar. He used it to gesture at me with a laugh.

"You speak of _my_ bruises, but you should see yourself, my dear Watson. You look absolutely frightful."

I touched my cheek, aware of several tender spots.

"It's a good thing this happened _after_ we attended the opera," I said with a chuckle.

"Yes, it would be rather awkward to have people staring at you, wouldn't it?" said Holmes as he puffed at the cigar thoughtfully, looking at the ceiling.

"Probably no different from how people feel when you stare at them, my dear Holmes." I said, hiding a smile.

Holmes looked at me, raising his eyebrows.

"_I _do not stare at people out of idle or reproachful curiosity. I stare at people to _observe_ them. It is instructive."

"I just cannot see how you do it and not feel awkward about it yourself," I said, stretching out in my chair.

There was a professional-sounding knock at the door, and Holmes sprang up and over to it. He knelt down, peering through the key-hole and, having satisfied himself that it was likely not a murderer, he stood and opened the door to reveal a small boy, dressed in the hotel uniform.

"Two bags of ice, please, my boy, and be quick," Holmes said to him, and I was glad that one of us could speak fairly fluent French.

The boy nodded and went off to do his task, and Holmes closed the door behind him.

"It took him long enough to get here," said Holmes as he walked over to the table and again studied himself in the coffee-pot.

"Holmes," I asked after a moment, "How long do you think we will have to endure this?"

Holmes sat down the silver pot and sighed.

"I'm not sure, Watson. We may just stay in to-morrow. If we exhaust ourselves too much, it doesn't matter if Hughes tracks us down soon or not, we will be easy prey for when he does find us."

My friend paced the room for several more minutes until the boy returned, and Holmes took the ice from him. Grabbing a hand-towel, he tossed it to me, and I wrapt it around the ice pack and placed it gingerly on my sore ankle.

"How is it?" Holmes asked, re-seating himself sideways in his chair.

"It isn't too severe, but I shouldn't be on it too much," I replied, examining it.

"Then it's settled—" Holmes paused with a slight hissing intake of air as he sat the cold ice against his head, "—we won't leave to-morrow. And _you_ are sleeping to-night…in your bed."

"And so are you; doctor's orders."

Holmes looked up at the ceiling again, his deep-set eyes thoughtful and more than a little weary.

"We cannot afford it. I wouldn't be able to rest, anyhow, my dear Watson. We simply cannot afford it. Not with a smart, determined man like Hughes."

"Then let us get a policeman to keep watch! Holmes, this is a desperate situation. You cannot allow your pride to rob you from the rest you need. What if you fall asleep?"

My friend's languid grey eyes fell upon me piercingly.

"That is why I will _not_ fall asleep. It is a matter of life and death. We will be all right, my good man. I promise you."

* * *

**KS: Thank you so very much for reading, and please, don't forget to review!**

**You had better, since this is such a super _long_ chapter!!**


	15. Rest

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

* * *

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter fifteen of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I know I said last chapter that the next chapter would be much less light than it was, but this one is still pretty light. But it's getting where it needs to go. **

**This one starts in Holmes****'s POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

I finally managed to talk Watson into going to sleep for the night. I spent the rest of the night reclined in an armchair, smoking my pipe as I thought more on our current situation.

Hughes was sending his hired men after us because, of course, he was too smart to be running around Paris in the open when the police would now be looking for him also. And even if he was armed, one man against both Watson and myself left the odds _slightly_ in our favour. It would be much better for him if he could capture us without risk to his own person and rid my dear Watson of his ever-present revolver.

I had wondered at first how Hughes was affording to hire these men, but I knew that they were most likely either lent to him as payment of some old favour by a French crime boss, or he was getting money from some stash he had set aside in case of emergency. Knowing Jackson Hughes, it could very well be both of those.

To-morrow, we would stay in. Watson's ankle was too injured to be walking upon for a day or two, and we both badly needed some rest.

I tossed aside the bag of ice—now mostly melted into water—and drew up my legs, shifting my position slightly. It was going to be a long night, not having much to ponder over. But I wouldn't fail to keep vigil over Watson as he slept.

* * *

"Holmes," Watson said as he came from his room, the roughness of sleep not yet completely gone from his voice.

"Yes, Watson?" I asked, leaning my head back over the arm of the chair I was sitting sideways in to see him.

He was making it a point to not put weight upon his ankle, and was therefore bracing himself on anything he could as he came toward me. His face was mottled with light and dark bruises, but his eyes widened when he saw me.

"My dear Holmes, you look dreadful," he said.

"It is a little rough, isn't it?" I remarked, turning the page of my newspaper.

Just a little earlier, as I had shaved myself, I had got a good look at my face. There was a bruise on my left cheekbone, black and angry, and my right eye was blackened. There were other minor bruises, especially a few on my arms, but none as bad as those two.

"It isn't just your relics from the battle last night," said Watson. "You need to sleep. That dark circle around your left eye isn't a bruise."

"Could you ring for some coffee, Watson? I haven't called for breakfast yet, I'm afraid. I didn't know when you would wake."

Watson did not follow the change of subject.

"Now that I am fully rested, Holmes, I suggest you go and get some sleep. I am perfectly capable of watching over you, if you have been perfectly capable of watching over me."

He walked over and rang for the morning meal, watching me. I raised my paper a little higher.

"I shall rest a little later," I said. "I am hardly tired. I cannot think of sleep when there is work to be done."

"But Holmes, there _is_ no work to be done. Not right at this moment. Please, get some rest. I will be fine. At the first sign of anything, I will wake you."

I remained behind my newspaper for a moment.

"If you really insist that I do—"

"I insist. Now go on, Holmes, before you fall over from exhaustion."

I gave him a smile and swung my legs around onto the floor. I stood, placed my paper over the arm of the chair, and walked toward my room.

"Thank you, Watson." I called as I passed through the door.

I removed my dressing-gown, which I had fetched early in the night, and tossed it over the foot of the bed. I quickly removed my waistcoat, tie, and trousers, and threw them to the floor next to the bed. I then pushed the covers back and crawled under them, sighing to myself with pleasure and relief.

My body really did want sleep very badly. Sometimes my own fleshly limits were most bothersome, but I could not do anything about it. I laid my head back onto the pillow and succumbed to the sweet embrace of slumber.

* * *

I slept for several hours, and when I awoke I felt quite refreshed. I hurried into new clothes and stepped out to see how Watson was doing. He was seated on the sofa reading a book, the newspaper on the floor next to him.

"You still haven't finished that romantic pirate drivel, eh?" I asked.

Watson turned quickly at the sound of my voice.

"Oh, Holmes," said he when he saw me, smiling. "See? You look much better."

He turned and gestured to an envelope that sat upon the dining-table.

"You received a telegram while you were asleep. I didn't open it, because I didn't know if you would want me to or not."

My brow furrowed as I strode over to the table, picking up the yellow-tinted paper.

"A telegram…?" I muttered. "It cannot be from Mycroft…he _knows _not to send any messages here…"

I took up a knife from the table and carefully cut it open, pulling out the message, and my eyes quickly scanned it over.

"Watson…" I said when I had finished, my voice not as steady as I would have liked.

"What is it, Holmes?" Watson asked, sitting up more and setting his book aside when he saw my expression.

"Hughes has found us," I replied, looking at the paper again.

Watson's eyes widened, and I felt danger prickling at the back of my neck as I slowly stepped over closer to where he was seated.

" 'Holmes,' he says, 'I know where you are now, and this is proof. You're easily enough traced when you have no hole to go to. Now your life is in my hand. Be ready. –J.H.' "

"Holmes," Watson breathed, "Now what do we do?"

I thought for a moment, and only a moment, as I swallowed my nervousness.

"Finish dressing, and get your revolver, Watson. We must leave."

* * *

**KS: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! It was much shorter than the last, but about as long as most. Please review!**


	16. Relocation

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

* * *

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter sixteen of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. More stuff...I continue on...We're geting farther!**

**This one starts in Watson****'s POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"What?" I asked incredulously.

"Get your money, your stick, your revolver, and perhaps another set or two of clothing." Holmes replied, bustling about.

"Where are we going?"

"To another hotel," Holmes called from his room, "Hughes knows we're here, and God only knows what he may try. We will leave some of our possessions and do a few things to give the illusion that we're still staying here to throw him off the scent."

"But, wait, Holmes, if we leave now…surely Hughes has men watching the hotel. As soon as they see us leave, they will track us to the new hotel."

"I have thought of that, Watson," Holmes replied. He had brought a black bag from his room and sat it upon the table. "That is why we are disguising ourselves."

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment.

"You will fit perfectly into the role of a crippled elderly gentleman. You aren't the best actor in the world, but with your ankle injury and just a little make-up…"

"What will you be?" I asked, a little wary of the idea of a disguise.

"I suppose I could be your young son, helping you. We can pose as tourists, so you won't need to speak any French."

"Can you make us passable?"

I saw a twinkle in my friend's eye.

"I can make us _more_ than passable, my dear Watson. All that will be left is for you to keep up the act," he replied, smiling mischievously. "Now sit down, we must be quick."

I obeyed, sitting down at the table, and Holmes pulled a chair out and sat directly before me. He opened the small black bag and reached in, pulling out several small jars of pigmented make-up, brushes, and sponges.

"Hold still, Watson," said my friend. "It will take a lot to cover these bruises."

He put some flesh-coloured liquid onto a small sponge and daubed it all over my face, neck, and hands. He did this with another colour, a little lighter, and another, a little darker, but he did these in spots. His nervous white hands worked quickly, and soon he finished the skin tone.

Working deftly, he added some strange, malleable material to my cheeks, a little to my nose, and some to my chin, and he covered these over with colour like the rest of my skin. He next pulled from the bag a bunch of white, feathery hair, and neatly fixed my own so the wig would fit over properly. With a bit of glue and some quick, smart application, he also added white, bushy side whiskers and eyebrows. At last, he was finished.

"What do you think?" Holmes asked finally, holding up a small hand-mirror.

I looked into it and was amazed.

"My word, Holmes, this is fantastic!"

I saw my friend flush slightly at the compliment.

"Good," said he, "Now go dress the part—I will help in a moment if you need it. I must get ready myself."

I went to my room, gathered my things, and adjusted my clothes so that I thought I looked the perfect model of an elderly gentleman. When I went back out, relying on my stick to help me keep the pressure off of my ankle, I saw Holmes standing there, adjusting his blue cravat. I wouldn't have been able to recognise him if I didn't already know it was him, so perfect was his disguise.

"What do you think, my dear Watson?" my friend asked in a disguised voice, a grin on his face.

"It's perfectly marvellous."

"Excellent! Are you ready?"

"I believe so," I replied, showing a small valise I had packed.

"Good, that is just perfect. Come, Watson, and mind your ankle."

* * *

We walked casually down the streets of Paris, still being aware of our surroundings in case our disguises had been seen through. Holmes led me to another telegraph office—one other than the office he had instructed Mycroft to send his messages to.

"Hughes may have a man watching the other office now," he explained to me quietly as he wrote out a few new telegrams. "He may even have someone there watching for our messages."

"What are those for?" I asked.

"One is to Scotland Yard. The other is to Mycroft, telling him that this is the office to now send messages to…and to ask him to send a little extra money, since it will be difficult keeping up two hotel bills in Paris. The third is also to Mycroft. I want him to send a wire to the hotel we just left to give the illusion that we are still staying there. He won't put anything important in the message, of course." Holmes replied.

We exited the office after the wires had been sent off and set out in search for a new, safer hotel. I was having a great deal of trouble from my ankle, but Holmes helped me along, and he did it in such a manner that we really did seem like an elderly crippled man and his helpful son.

We found a decent-looking establishment after about an hour of searching and went inside. We stood in the lobby for a moment or two, and Holmes scrutinised the place with his keen, grey eyes.

"What do you think of this place, father?" he asked in his disguised voice.

"It seems all right," I said, disguising my own hopefully enough to be convincing, "whatever you think, my boy."

Holmes had always said that I was a very poor actor. I hoped that I could do the job this time, as much as was resting on my performance. We approached the desk clerk and engaged rooms for ourselves under aliases and immediately went up to them.

"Is your ankle all right?" Holmes asked in his normal voice when we reached the room, tossing his hat onto the table as he walked over to me.

"It's as well as can be expected," I replied, sitting down and propping my leg up on another chair. "Our walk didn't affect it too badly."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, searching my face. I suppose that even with the makeup, my features were an open book to him, for disbelief was clearly written in his eyes.

"Watson, you cannot pretend with me, how is it?"

I sighed.

"That was a bit more walking than I should have done on it, honestly," I replied. "But now I can rest it, and I should be fine."

"Would you like me to get you something? Ice? Anything for the pain?"

"No, it's not bad enough yet for pain medication, Holmes," I said, grimacing as I rubbed it a bit. "But ice would be helpful."

"Of course," Holmes said, going over to the bell and ringing it, after which he pulled out his pipe and filled it, thoughtfully looking at me.

"For a little while, at least, we should be safe," he said, "But of course we should not lower our guard any. And you, my dear Watson, will have a few days to recover from your fall."

"And you a few days to rest, my dear Holmes. More than you have been getting, at least." said I.

"Indeed. A few days' rest will hurt us none," said my friend. "We will be much more able to avoid Hughes's incessant vendetta chase."

"But what are we going to do while we wait?" I asked, reclining a bit. "_You_ certainly aren't going to be able to stay in doors for more than a day without something to occupy your mind."

Holmes flashed me a grim smile.

"Very true, Watson. I am afraid that I shall be a rather miserable companion until we are able to be active again,"

He lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long, thin legs far out before him as he stared at the ceiling.

About this time, there was a sharp knock on the door. Holmes sighed, having just made himself comfortable, but sprang back up and went to the door.

Just as I had seen him do before, he peered through the keyhole first to satisfy himself as to the identity of our visitor. He then opened the door for the boy, whom he asked to go and fetch a bag of ice, some tea, and some sandwiches—I was rather glad to hear him ask for the food.

"Why not ask for a pack of cards?" I called from my seat.

I heard my friend ask for the item, and I smiled. It would, at least, give us _something_ to do. The boy left and Holmes came back over, sitting down in the chair and smoking his pipe.

"Cards are a good idea, Watson," said he, "But I don't think that they will keep us sufficiently entertained for the time we will be here."

He pointed to my ankle with the stem of his pipe.

"I should think that you will need to stay off of that foot for at _least_ a week."

"Holmes, there is no way we can be idle for that long. What about Hughes?"

"I believe you mean to say that there is no way that _I_ can be idle for that long. Do not worry about me, Watson. I shall manage. And as long as we do not leave a trail for that rat to follow, he cannot trace us. Not unless he has spies in every inch of Paris."

My companion's eyelids drooped, and he stared vacantly at the floor as he smoked.

"And I do not think that even Jackson Hughes has those kinds of resources. Not presently, anyhow."

"Then you propose that we stay here for a week?"

Holmes nodded.

"In my wire to my brother I used an alias that he knows, so we can safely ask the hotel to go fetch them in a few days. Then we will have money to stay here for as long as we need to."

"What about the wire to Scotland Yard?"

"I was forced to use my own name for that, but I will go see about it when we are able to leave again."

The boy returned quickly this time, along with another, and Holmes took the items from the two and gave them a tip. When the lads had left, Holmes poured me some tea and brought me over a few sandwiches.

"You will eat, won't you?" I asked hopefully.

"I have nothing else to do," said my friend, taking up a sandwich for himself and biting into it hungrily.

I was glad to see him finally regain something of an appetite. I did not want to have to treat my friend for malnourishment as well as watch our backs for danger.

Holding the half-eaten sandwich in his mouth, Holmes opened the brand-new pack of cards and let them fall into his hands. He shuffled through them, testing their feel, and looked at me.

"So do you want to play after we eat?" he asked, taking the sandwich from his mouth.

"You're already getting bored?"

"You know that I abhor doing nothing, Watson."

"All right, Holmes, we'll play. Which game would you like?"

"Oh, I don't know, cards has never been of particular interest to me. You choose."

I smiled. It was true--Holmes's recreational activities were fencing, boxing, revolver practice within doors, and things of an energetic and varied nature.

Perhaps to-day I would beat finally beat him at something.

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**KS: Don't forget to review! More reviews, more chapters. Better reviews…possibly better chapters. Review!**


	17. Waiting

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter seventeen of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I'm not so sure about how good this chapter will be…but then, I'm usually not confident in my writing. I really need to work on that. Anyways, we're progressing. I apologise for the slow updates—my life consists of constantly babysitting my nephew. **

**This one starts in Watson****'s POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

We played at cards for a good three hours, and I introduced Holmes to a few different games—though, we never stayed on one for very long, for despite his quick grasp of the rules, he became bored with each concept quickly. This was mostly because his great brain could either count the cards, tell if I was bluffing or not, or just because he didn't like the game.

We had both won and lost some...Holmes would not win until he understood the game--which usually did not take long, and then I would start to lose.

The games had been amusing enough while they lasted. Holmes tried to teach me how to bluff more effectively after he kept seeing through my put-on calm façade, and I taught him how to do some trick shuffling. He was quite good at manipulating the cards, since his fingers were so nimble and quick. Finally, though, he had played enough, and he sat his cards down with a sigh.

"Well, that certainly didn't last long enough," I said jestingly, taking his cards and shuffling them to put them back into the pack. "We can play more to-morrow, perhaps."

"I wish I had brought my violin along…" my friend said, pushing back from the table and looking out the window.

"You can't possibly be bored already."

"Not terribly so…not yet," said Holmes, twirling a thin finger along the table cloth and looking thoughtful.

I stood, wincing as I did so because I forgot about my ankle. I used my cane to get me over to the sofa. Holmes leapt up and walked me over and helped me to sit down—though I was perfectly capable of doing it on my own. As I sat, I remembered something.

"Oh, Holmes," I said, "Please go and get my bag for me. I need to put a new wrap on my ankle."

Holmes took my bag from where I had left it and brought it over to me.

"Do you need any assistance?" he asked, handing it to me.

"No, I don't think so," I replied.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, quite."

I opened my bag and pulled out the roll of bandages and carefully drew my leg up. I had removed my shoe after we had arrived at the new hotel and found our rooms, so my foot was bare save for my stocking. I pulled it off gently and unwrapped the bindings.

While unbound I took the time to examine the sprained joint again. It was swollen and a bit discoloured—not quite as bad as initially thought, but it would take some time to fully heal. It was quite painful, but I did not want to admit that to Holmes. He would insist that I take something for the pain, and I wanted clarity of mind to be ready in case anything happened.

I winced as I wound the cloth around the joint tightly. I glanced at my friend, who was standing over me, watching me at my task with a mix of intense curiosity and a tinge of concern. His black brows were drawn together, and his eyes were focused on my busy hands.

"Did you ever consider becoming a doctor, Holmes?" I asked, wondering about his interest.

Holmes came from his inquisitive reverie with a strong shake of his head.

"No, no. I was not cut out for that profession," he replied. "I haven't the patience to deal with patients."

"No, I suppose you don't," said I with a hearty laugh.

I finished with my ankle and carefully pulled my stocking back over it. My friend was now tapping his fingers on the back of the seat.

* * *

_**HOLMES:**_

"A week, Holmes," Watson said upon seeing my fingers beat upon the chair, "Entertain yourself for at _least_ a week."

"But I brought nothing with me to do," I sighed, looking out the window once more. "It is singularly dull... Our hunter is out there this moment, while _we_ are the hunted. The roles have been reversed, and for now we can do nothing about it..."

I normally shouldn't have this much trouble with boredom. At home, I would have all sorts of things that I could occupy myself with. My violin, my chemicals, my writings…

I had to admit, my mind had already wandered to that other escape from boredom that Watson so abhorred. I turned away from him and wandered over to the window. I pushed back my sleeve and shirt-cuff slightly, selecting and running a finger along a clear vein. I counted the numerous puncture-marks upon my arm...

I suddenly felt very guilty. I pulled my sleeve back to its rightful position and thrust my hands into my trouser pockets.

Even if I _had_ brought the drug with me, I would never use it in the midst of danger. I had to be at my best, for Watson's life was on the line, as well as my own. Even if I had access to it, my syringe would go unused during this boredom.

I poured myself some tea, looking about the room for my options. There was a small book-case…probably nothing there of interest to me. The volumes were probably terrible excuses for literature…probably florid romantic drivel, or some nonsense like that. I would look, anyways, but Watson was more likely to find something to do there than I.

There were a few drawers and cabinets…I could go through them to see if I could find anything interesting. Possibly I could examine the room for data on the previous room's occupants. It would be interesting to try—the maids here probably did not do a very thorough job of cleaning, and many clues were probably left behind.

There were various other minute things that could present me with a little to do…for that I was thankful. But there was no way that I could stretch it out to cover the time we needed for Watson to recuperate.

But, I would manage somehow.

I went over to the small bookshelf and began to peruse its selection.

* * *

_**WATSON:**_

Holmes was miserable. If we were not in such danger, he could easily have detached his mind from the case. But I could see his constant worry for me. He checked every bit of food that entered the room, every servant was watched closely...he feared for our lives. No, he feared for _my_ life. It didn't help with his boredom that he had brought nothing to do, and it did not help that this room presented little enough for his admirable mind to occupy itself with.

On the first day of our confinement Holmes had found a thick book on Baroque composers that kept him entertained, reading it and rereading it. When he wasn't leafing through its pages, he was humming or tapping his left hand's fingers to the music.

On the second day he had went energetically about the room, examining the minutiae left behind by the room's previous occupants and detailing to me excitedly the deductions he made from them. It was quite interesting, and I was glad for a little bit of entertainment myself--there were several books I found I could read, but one could not spend their entire day with their nose in a book.

On the third day, Holmes started to run out of things to do. I talked with him a bit, but he was growing restless. We played cards again, and Holmes had tried to develop a new game, but I found it rather too complicated for my tastes. Holmes had said he would have to share it with Mycroft at some point--though I doubted Mycroft had very much taste for cards.

On the fourth day, Holmes had begun to pace. He walked about the room for a while, sat for a while, and walked for a while. It was somewhat annoying, but I buried myself further in my book. I wished I could give him some problem, some puzzle, for his mind to work upon, but there was nothing.

He had sent a boy to gather any telegrams that had accumulated for us at the office, and he read over these, but got very little from them. According to Mycroft, the Yard had heard nothing of Hughes, and neither had the French Police, but they were looking into the incidents we had reported. Mycroft again had sent a message of caution, and had forwarded the money requested.

On the fifth day, Holmes was restless yet again. He would go about, drumming his long, white fingers and biting his nails. After lunch, he decided to reread the book of composers.

To-day was the ninth day. We were very glad that we had so far avoided detection by Hughes's men—our food appeared safe, the hotel staff seemed legitimate so far. There didn't seem to be any real trouble at the present moment. My ankle was healing nicely enough, but Holmes was now beyond restless. He had progressed to depression—deep, black depression. He had taken up residence on the sofa, lying there from morning until night, moving only to eat or relieve himself.

I could tell by the look in his eyes that his active mind was conjuring thoughts that weren't entirely pleasant, and I worried for him. He was used to being able to fall back upon the drug during these black times, but now he was forced to face these swirling thoughts alone.

I tried to talk to him--to offer my presence as a replacement--but I found it difficult to break through to him. I asked him what was he thinking about, and if there was anything I could do. He waved it off, saying that it wasn't anything of too much importance, and that all would be right soon. I got the distinct feeling that he wished to be left alone.

Injured ankle or no, I could not let my friend be caged like an animal for much longer.

* * *

_**HOLMES:**_

My mind rebels at stagnation. My spirit chafes against inaction. I must always be doing _something_.

I feel rather terrible when I am not doing something constructive. Not only do I despise being bored, but with all the murders I have seen, and as many enemies as I have, I tend to think that inactivity is a waste of one's limited time.

When I am left with nothing for too long, my mind wanders. It wanders into dangerous areas…Questions arise on emotions such as loneliness, my own inability to truly feel as others do, the direction of mankind as a whole...

This time, my mind was visualising dangerous and deadly scenarios possible with Hughes.

Watson was injured, I was without the resources I truly needed, and we were alone in this great city. But Hughes seemed to have resources. His reach was not all about us as completely as a net, but he might at any point have us at his mercy, even when we least expect it.

The scenarios my mind conjured would often not end well.

I closed my eyes, trying to destroy the bloody images that repeated themselves in my head. If Watson was ever killed by someone because of me, I would never even begin to be able to forgive myself.

These were black thoughts, indeed.

Night had fallen on this the ninth day of our seclusion, and it was Watson's turn to stay up and keep watch. I went to my bed and laid down. I was the only one who could protect us...the only one who could save us.

The thought revitalised my mind somewhat, rousing it from that deep torpor it had been forced into, and sleep came much easier. To-morrow was a new day. I prayed that God would continue to keep us safe, and that I would have the strength to protect Watson if necessary.

I would need to stop worrying about my boredom and rein in my thoughts.

I had no room for idle emotions in normalcy, let alone at the present. My dearest and only friend's life was on the line.

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**KS: Thanks for reading, now...Go review! **

**I had to get this waiting stuff out of my system...all in one go...xDD**

**Like I said earlier, I wasn't sure about this chapter, and now I am sure that I'm unhappy with it. I may edit this later and repost. (EDIT: Now it's been edited slightly, but I'm still unhappy...less so, but still not pleased.)**

**REVIEW.**


	18. A Trap

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter eighteen of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I'm getting excited now...yay. I'll hopefully have a lot of updates and finish this fic by Friday because I'm leaving town to go to Acquire the Fire. I can't promise anything, but I hope to God I finish it. xD**

**This one starts in Watson****'s POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It was now our twelfth day of seclusion in our rooms, and Holmes had been acting as if he felt a bit better over the past three days. But it seemed to me that the hotel staff seemed to be growing suspicious of the two strange travellers that had arrived and never left and were always sending for telegrams.

Holmes said that they probably thought we were either extremely odd and eccentric travellers or were criminals.

I had said to him, jestingly, that he was so bored that he was beginning to be overly wary.

But, though it had improved, it was because of his boredom that I had decided to-day was the day to break our confinement. My ankle wasn't completely healed, but I certainly felt that with the help of my walking stick, I was up to a stroll.

"Holmes," I began as we ate breakfast.

My friend was currently slicing his ham—I was glad to see that his full appetite had returned, though once we were spurred to action once more, I doubted it would remain.

"Hm?" he muttered, not looking up from the newspaper that lay on the table next to him.

"Do you feel like going out to-day?" I asked.

This made my companion look up, a curious look on his thin features.

"To-day? Is your ankle healed already?" he asked with some surprise.

"No," I replied, "Not entirely. But it's well enough that we may go out, as long as we do not overexert ourselves."

My friend's face displayed concern, but his grey eyes betrayed him as they flashed with interest at the prospect of freedom.

"But Watson, we cannot risk a relapse."

"Do not worry about it. I am the doctor, if you will remember correctly."

"I never for a moment forgot it. I still do not think that your ankle is well enough, however. I fear you just want to get out."

"Don't you?"

My friend smiled.

"You're trying too hard to be nonchalant. My dear fellow, I can see straight through you. You paid no attention to me the other night when I taught you how to bluff, apparently."

"What do you mean?"

"Watson, you are trying to get _me_ out. I have been, unfortunately just as I predicted, a rather unpleasant companion over the last twelve days."

"I could do with the fresh air, too." said I trying to keep up _some_ air of nonchalance, taking a sip of my coffee.

Holmes's smile broadened.

"If you think you are up to it, and you really insist, then I suppose we can." he said.

"I do insist. Besides, if we do not do something soon, I believe one of us will go insane."

"Oh, not for another few days, I'm sure," my friend chortled as he speared a piece of ham with his fork.

* * *

We finished our breakfasts and took the time to disguise ourselves before going out. I again marvelled at Holmes's skill in costume—the transformation was so complete, I did not think that anyone should ever be able to recognise us.

We stepped out into the sunny, fresh morning. There were a few grey clouds in the sky, and the pavement was slightly damp from a morning shower, but hardly ever had I felt more relief to be outside. There was something about that room and our situation that made our seclusion seem so much more like an imprisonment.

Neither of us, I knew, had any specific destination in mind. We were just grateful to be up and about once more.

Holmes pressed a hand down firmly on my shoulder as we walked—I had been forgetting to stoop slightly. I had to keep in mind that I was acting, and couldn't afford to slip from my role.

We walked on for some time, enjoying the fresh spring air and exercise. I was being careful with my ankle, and I saw no reason that our stroll couldn't last long enough to shake the cobwebs of inactivity from our minds and bodies.

"I say, Watson," Holmes remarked quietly, "You're getting along rather well."

"See, Holmes, there's nothing to it. I told you I'd be all right for a walk." I smiled.

"Indeed," said my friend, "Then I suppose the park would be all right?"

"Splendid."

"Excellent. First let us stop by the telegraph office and see if we have any messages waiting for us."

We turned down another section of pavement and were soon at the office. Holmes took me inside with him, and asked the desk clerk in his disguised voice about any telegraphs for his alias. The clerk searched and answered in the affirmative, handing him the envelope. Holmes came over to me, opened it, and glanced over its contents.

"Come, father," Holmes said, glancing about and leading me out of the office.

Once we were on the pavement once again on our way to the park, Holmes spoke.

"That was Mycroft," he explained quietly, "Scotland Yard and the French Police still have not heard anything of Hughes. They expect he has gone farther onto the Continent."

"So we are safe?" I asked.

"Hardly. I fear that the officials do not know how to properly look for him. No, he is still in Paris, of that I am absolutely certain."

"So the police have found nothing…" I muttered.

"It is all right, Watson," Holmes assured. "Besides, I would think you would be used to the Force's incompetence."

I smiled at my friend's joke, and we continued on toward the park.

* * *

The park was just as amiable as the rest of the city. The green grass was slightly damp, which prevented picnicking, but it stood up strong, and there was a fresh feeling to the air that was invigorating. My friend was again keeping me entertained—and, indeed, was entertaining himself—by detailing observations of the people around us. We were still trying to be inconspicuous, so Holmes's normally airy demeanour was subdued, but I could still tell that it was doing him much good to be active again.

In the middle of a lecture over the importance of observing shoes, Holmes took my arm in his hand.

"Watson," he whispered to me, "we are being followed."

I wanted to look behind us, but I knew that would be imprudent, so I strived to remain as casual as possible.

"Are you certain?" I asked.

"Almost."

"What do we do?"

Holmes looked around carefully.

"The park perhaps isn't the best place to be…Come, Watson."

Holmes guided me along, and we quickened our pace slightly, but only slightly. We certainly did not want to alert our pursuers and let them know we knew they were following us. We found our way out of the park safely and started travelling down the well-populated main streets of Paris once more.

"Are they still back there, Holmes?" I asked, not wanting to look behind us.

"Yes," my friend replied, "and unfortunately, another has joined their number. I am most certain they are trailing us now. But, they won't dare to kidnap us with so many witnesses."

As we went along nervously, I became aware of two men that had emerged from the crowd and were now following us, but were more to our side.

"They're trying to box us in," Holmes whispered angrily. He glanced around. "And I have no doubt they've prearranged for all of these cabs to be taken…"

After another moment three men emerged from an alley about thirty feet ahead of us and were determinedly coming our way.

"How do they recognise us?" I wondered aloud.

"No time for that, Watson!" Holmes grumbled, pulling me off the pavement and out into the street. We weaved and darted in between cabs, and were more than once almost run over, and my ankle, though I was careful with it, protested every sudden movement.

Our pursuers followed through the crowd.

I felt my heart begin to pound in my chest as I looked around. I saw a desperate sort of look in my friend's eyes as he searched for any possible routes of escape.

"God only knows what they'll do, Watson, if they catch up with us," he hissed. "We cannot go down the alley, but we cannot just stand here."

"But I cannot possibly run, Holmes!" said I.

My friend looked me over quickly.

"Yes, I know." he said grimly.

Just then, a four-wheeler pulled up and emptied its passengers. It was a fair distance away, but even I saw that it was out best chance.

"Come, Watson!" my friend nearly shouted, and we both took off in the direction of the cab.

"Drive!!" Holmes shouted to the cabby as we leapt up into it.

The cab drove off furiously, and Holmes chanced to look out the window at the men that had been following us.

"Mostly Frenchmen with a few Englishmen…" he muttered.

I sighed with relief, extremely glad that we had escaped yet another terrible situation. Holmes fell back into his seat, crossed his arms, and furrowed his brow in thought. After a few moments he beat the roof of the cab a few times with his stick and again requested the cabby to drive back to our hotel, but to take a roundabout route. He settled back into his seat, thinking once more.

Several minutes passed.

Our pace was quite fast, and several sharp turns were taken, and after a moment more Holmes's head rose with a start. He sat forward quickly and gazed intensely out the window. His grey eyes widened, and he rapped furiously on the roof of the cab.

"HEY!!" he shouted, "Cabman, _STOP!!_"

Despite his cries, the carriage kept its speed.

"What is it, Holmes?" I gasped, wondering what had my friend in such a state.

He turned upon me, his face pale and his grey eyes anxious.

"This is not a normal cab," he breathed.

I didn't understand what he meant, but the grave look of unease on his face chilled my blood.

"It's a trap." he said.

I felt the colour drain from my face.

"A…trap?" I breathed. "How…?"

"They _tricked _us into using this cab!!" Holmes growled, banging on the roof again.

He gave up the fruitless effort and turned his attention back to the window.

"We are going along at a good rate…Do you think you could jump?"

"I don't know if I can, but it is better than certain death." I replied.

Holmes nodded, and turned the handle of the door...But it would not open. I saw my friend's face darken as he turned it again, trying to force it, but still nothing happened. He drew a long leg up and kicked it furiously, making it only rattle in its frame.

"Blast it all!" He cried. "Watson, your revolver!!"

My mind flashed with hope, and from my jacket pocket I drew the piece. Amidst the shaking of the speeding cab I sighted the door and fired thrice, after which Holmes attempted to kick it again, but still…it was to no avail.

I had not often seen Holmes drop that granite façade of his, but at this time I saw fear break through onto his features.

"He's somehow secured the door…!!" he hissed, turning to me. "Try to force the other one!"

He ground his teeth together furiously as he struck the door repeatedly. I did as he ordered and put my weight against the other, but with our motion it was difficult to get good leverage. As we took another sharp turn we both lost our balance and tumbled onto each other. My ankle twisted, and I suppressed a cry of pain.

"I'm sorry, Watson!" Holmes said abruptly, getting to his feet and hastily helping me to do so as well. "But I'm sure you realise that our destination, if we do not find our way out of this cab, will not be a pleasant one."

Just as abruptly as the rest of our trip had gone, the cab stopped, throwing the both of us off our feet again. My head banged against the wall, and I felt the world blacken about me as I lost consciousness.

* * *

**KS: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it, now please…Go review!!**


	19. Awaken

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

_**

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**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter nineteen of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. FINALLY, we are getting to the point of interest—the point it has taken EIGHTEEN chapters to get to! XD Well, here we go…**

**This one starts in Holmes****'s POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

My eyes widened as I saw Watson pitch forward and slam his head against the front of the cab before I could catch him.

"Watson!" I cried.

I was about to fall to his side on my knees, but a sound from behind caused me to turn round instead.

The cab door opened, and about ten men were standing outside the cab, all armed with pistols aimed directly at the door's opening. As soon as they saw me, the barrels rose to either my head or heart. It was an extremely uncomfortable position.

My mind flashed to the revolver Watson was clutching, but I knew instantly that it would do no good for me to try and grab it. Not only would they shoot me before I could fire off a shot, and likely shoot Watson as well, but after the piece had been fired repeatedly at the door, I doubted there were very many bullets left in the chambers.

I stiffened as I looked out at the men. With Watson unconscious, they had a very heavy leverage over me indeed. The situation was utterly hopeless. There was no possible course of action that would not endanger us both. I felt a very, very uncomfortable feeling wash over me at that moment.

I could only give in, for if I struggled we would die immediately with no chance of escape. Pain gripped my heart as I did something I never in my life thought I would have to do—surrender.

I raised my hands in gesture of defeat, and one of the hired men motioned with his gun.

"Step out," said he, a snarl on his pugnacious features.

I chanced a glance back at Watson. What would they do with him?

"Step out!" the man repeated fiercely.

Arms still raised, I cautiously made my way forward and alighted from the cab. There was a still silence for a moment—and only a moment—before two stout men rushed me.

One took my left and one took my right, firmly grasping my arms and shoulders. I fought the overpowering urge to struggle as the blackguards took me, shoving and clutching at me to make sure I was not going to get away from them or fight back.

Mind racing with possibilities and danger, I was hardly prepared for what happened next. I felt a deep sense of panic rise within me as a reeking cloth was pressed firmly against my face.

It was chloroform!

Sickeningly I felt myself begin to slip under. I tried to fight the oncoming darkness, knowing it was vital to be awake, but I could not. My body started to feel limp and unresponsive. I decided now it was time to try and struggle, but it was futile. I could hardly move. My mind clouded and finally, the dreaded shadows that swirled about me took over, pulling me down into the deep blackness.

* * *

...

First, my mind began to work, to awaken. Slowly at first, as if all was misty and vague.

As things began to clear, I remembered the attack. My eyes snapped open.

My tolerance to chemical fumes was higher than what most people might have, but I still felt the lingering effects of the chloroform. I could not think clearly for the first few moments of being awake, and I stared around the room without much result.

Finally, the mists about me began to clear, and I realised I was rather nauseous, and ill. It was because of the chloroform…I knew that. But what happened, that I should be exposed to it? The cab ride…Hughes's men. I remembered again that we were in great danger. This thought brought me at last from my muddled consciousness to clarity, and I moved, only to find that I was restrained.

I looked down at my hands, which I found were manacled. A chain led from these to the bed I was sitting on, where it was securely attached, and my feet were shackled together; I certainly wasn't allowed much freedom of movement.

Blast it all, I had been captured! Cuffed and chained like an animal! If only I had a lock-pick—these derbies would be exceedingly simple to unlock! But it seemed as if Hughes had again been prudent enough to have me searched thoroughly, for no matter how I positioned myself and searched my person, I could not locate any of my concealed tools. They had even taken my jacket…I was close to shivering in this dark, slightly damp prison.

But what of Watson? I looked about and my eyes quickly fell upon the still unconscious form of my friend, laid upon the bed a little less roughly than I seemed to have been. There was a fair-sized, purple-red swelling on his forehead. I hoped he did not have a concussion. He was chained to his bed in the same manner that I was, and his arms were over his head awkwardly, for the chain was too short to allow his arms to be at his sides. I observed his face and breathing; he seemed to be all right for the moment, considering the situation—as far as I could tell, at least.

I settled back, resting my head against the wall. I could not do much for the moment but examine our situation.

We needed to escape. Our very lives depended upon it. But Hughes, though stubborn, was a man that took past experiences and learned from them. He would be much more careful to prevent any possible escape. And vendetta or no vendetta, if we tried to escape and were caught he would undoubtedly kill us on the spot or mortally wound us: he wouldn't want a repeat of the last time.

I occupied myself with searching the room for anything that could help us. The room was very barren—there were only two beds and a small stool off in the corner. There was no window, and the door seemed quite solid. The floor was dirty, but I could not see anything on it that could help, as I had seen the shard of glass before. I would need a wire, or some thin piece of metal, to free us from our bonds, and there was nothing of the sort in here.

Though there was nothing, I knew that somehow, we would escape. We must. All was lost if we did not. I would wait for Watson to awaken, and discuss the situation with him.

* * *

_**WATSON**_**:**

Slowly and groggily I came to myself. My mind was quite sluggish…where was I? It seemed that I was sitting in some room. I felt very tired, and my head ached terribly.

"Watson," said a familiar voice, "You are awake at last, I see."

I turned my throbbing head to see the thin face of my friend Sherlock Holmes, his grey eyes studiously focused upon me.

"Where are we, Holmes…?" I asked, furrowing my brow as I attempted to think clearly.

"I'm not entirely certain, but it's a far cry from that lavish house Hughes had when we last saw him, isn't it?" Holmes replied.

Suddenly I began to remember the events that had transpired: the chase, the cab ride, and at last, losing my balance. I must have hit my head after I had fallen over. I sat up more.

"Hughes…!! Did you see him?"

"No, not yet. I'm afraid our capture was affected by hired men."

"What happened?" I asked.

"When we stopped, you fell forward and hit your head against the cab wall. You fell unconscious, and we were captured. They took us, made sure we would not struggle much with chloroform, and here we are."

"Why did they chloroform me if I was already unconscious?"

"To keep you out longer, I should think."

"How long have we been here?"

"I'm not entirely certain…A few hours, perhaps." Holmes looked grimly down at his bindings. "I see they learnt a lesson from the last time: no ropes. They've chained us now."

Finally I was clear-headed enough to take note of my surroundings, and I looked down at my own bonds as well. Our hands and feet were manacled and chained—fixed to the beds we were on. We would not be moving too much any time soon. Our prison, the room we were now in, was dingy, mouldy, and low. There were no furnishings except for the beds and a small stool. It seemed that we were still in Paris, but in one of the less affluent areas.

We sat for about two hours in this sordid room. Holmes talked quietly to me occasionally, but not excessively, explaining that we shouldn't discuss too much for fear of being overheard. But it wasn't as if talking at the present was vital—it was simple enough to see the dire situation we were in, and how few options we had. It was a long, dreadful wait before anyone finally came into our prison to check on us.

The man that came was a small, brown-haired Englishman. He looked like the flinching, easily-frightened type, and it was plain to see even for me that he was unnerved when he saw we were both conscious.

"Oi, now…yer awake…!" the smallish guard mumbled once he set eyes upon us.

He possessed a lower-class London accent, but it had a curious sort of sound to it, as if he had been in France for a number of years and it had worn somewhat on his speech.

Holmes noticed the man's unease immediately, and I saw a mischievous glint in his grey eyes before they hardened into their most stony glare.

"You there—come here." my companion said in his most commanding tone.

The man hesitated a moment, but after thinking it over and knowing that Holmes and I were both chained, he stepped forward cautiously. He continued forward, Holmes staring unblinkingly at him, until he was still just short of the distance the slack in our chains would allow us to go. When he reached this point, Holmes made a sudden movement toward the little man, which not only succeeded in startling him but also made him utter a pathetic cry and jump into the air with fright.

"O-o-oi, now!! None of that, or I'll have the boss in here!" the man stuttered, trembling.

"Go on and fetch your boss," said Holmes, unperturbed. "It's simpler to deal direct."

The man blinked a few times at my companion's coolness. He had not expected him to willingly ask for Hughes. Then the man's expression sat to one of chagrin, and he turned upon his heel and left, slamming the door behind him.

"Is he going to fetch Hughes?" I asked, turning quickly toward my companion.

"No, of course not. Someone like that hasn't the authority to call Hughes in whenever he likes. He's going to report that we're awake—Hughes might come of his own accord then, but it won't be directly because of that pathetic specimen of a man we just saw."

I was quiet for a moment, thoughts that I had been trying to repress for the past few days finally surfacing fully in my mind now that the danger was directly at hand.

"Holmes…" I whispered, my voice not nearly as steady as I would have liked it to be, "What are we going to do?"

"For the moment, we can do nothing." he replied. "We can only pray and wait until an opportunity presents itself. Then, we escape."

* * *

_**HOLMES**_**:**

I was very aware of the danger we were in. Hughes had displayed his devilish temper and vengefulness the last time we had encountered him, and he wasn't even in extreme danger at that point—he was only being preventive. Now his neck was certainly bound for the rope if he was so much as caught, and it was the doing of Watson and me.

I shuddered to think of what he was planning for us now.

I had an ill feeling in the pit of my stomach that we would soon find out, however. That piteous little man I had frightened so would most certainly go and report our wakefulness, and it was entirely possible that Hughes would waste no time to come and start his brutalities as soon as possible.

I glanced over at Watson. His honest, strong face was deeply lined with worry, and just a trace of fear.

It did me no good to see my staunch biographer afraid. I looked away and occupied myself once again with looking about the room. It was, of course, just as empty as it had been before.

My ears perked as I heard footsteps in the hall beyond our door, and I repositioned myself, feeling my body tense. Definitely more than one person, by the sound, and one was a very commanding stride…

I heard a key turning in the lock, and the door swung open. A strong-looking, stout fellow stepped through first, but he hardly had my attention. The man that followed him was Jackson Hughes.

Hughes had not changed much from our last encounter. He was still tall and athletic, with broad shoulders and chest. His green eyes still were piercing and fiery, and his face was still thin and what most would call handsome. His clothes, though, were dishevelled—he was hardly the man of fashion I remembered, clothed only in his shirt, trousers, and boots. His trim side-whiskers were now thicker and less neat, framing his face in a more villainous fashion. His appearance now was, as Watson's terribly romantic writings would describe it, much more fitting to the condition of his heart.

His eyes settled upon me and flashed like a madman's, a grin spreading across his face.

"Mr…Sherlock Holmes," he said slowly, dripping a gleeful sort of menace with each word, "And Dr. Watson. I see you've decided to stay a while with me again."

He paused again, smiling and looking us over with what seemed to be a demented pride at our capture.

"You see, Holmes, you could not elude me for long. I could have taken you sooner, even. But I didn't think the time was right. You're a bloody easy chap to locate."

I had, admittedly, been far too messy. It was not as easy to disappear when there was another person attached to you—especially if you were more concerned for their safety than your own. It was the exact reason that I had tried so hard _not_ to form any friendships in the first place.

"So, Mr. Holmes, what do you think of me now? Your little game put me in prison and reduced me to this… What do you think I'm going to do with you?"

His green eyes fastened upon me expectedly, but I did not reply. His smug smile reversed into a frown of petulance.

"Come now, Mr. Holmes, it's no good if you do it like that. Use those powers of yours—_guess_."

I cringed very slightly. He knew very well that I did not 'guess'.

"It takes no great power to see that you have vengeance in mind." I replied simply.

It would serve no purpose to anger him further.

"Oh, very good!" Hughes said sarcastically. "But yes, I suppose it would be too difficult to tell what I had planned for your immediate life, besides the obvious fact that I am going to keep you captive."

With each breath that this man took, I furiously fought the desire to fire a derisive comment at him.

"I'm sure you know, sir, that both French and English police are out for me now. I can't even go back to America."

Hughes paused here—and I wasn't sure if it was some freak defect in my hearing, but I could have nearly sworn that I heard his voice waver at this last word, but if so he quickly regained his composure and continued.

"So I'll make sure that you never return home, either."

And I felt a furious blow to my jaw.

* * *

**KS****: Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed!**

**Those Christian Sherlockians out there might want to pray for me…that my life will calm down and arrange itself better that I might actually get to write/live again. XD It would be much appreciated.**

**And I'm sorry if the flow is just a little odd, or if there are any glaring errors--I didn't get to profread it as much as I wanted to-night, since I wanted it posted. But I'll probably go over it again to-morrow. **

**Please, review!**


	20. Business

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

* * *

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter twenty of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I'm sorry it's taking so long for the updates--I can hardly get the time to write, and when I do I'm in a bit of a writer's block...xD**

**This one starts in Holmes****'s POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Hughes rubbed his thumb over his knuckles meditatively as he stared at me. I felt the blood trickle down from the corner of my freshly burst lip…Hughes really was an excellent boxer—an admirable foe. Under normal circumstances I would have relished a challenge such as him. But he had made it known far too well that he had no compunctions about harming Watson, and in my own worry for him and my too small knowledge of Paris, my guard had dangerously lessened.

"You'll be begging for your cosy little rooms at Baker-Street soon enough. But you won't even see Dover again. You won't ever see the _light of day_ again." Hughes said coldly.

"You'll hang for this, you know," I returned in my own steely tone.

"It's a far better thing than rotting in gaol, Mr. Holmes." Hughes said icily. He looked over at Watson and smirked.

"I see you've had a nasty fall, Doctor." he said, half-feigning concern. "The colour of that bruise goes well with your eyes, I think. You may need a few more to accentuate it."

I narrowed my eyes, glaring silent threats at Hughes, but the man returned my hard gaze with one of his own. I looked at Watson and could tell that he still felt the ill effects of the chloroform. (I did not blame him—I still felt rather poorly myself.) He moved as much as his sluggish body and bonds would let him to avoid what he knew was coming.

Hughes pulled back a fist and delivered a blow straight into Watson's strong jaw, and I flinched as I saw him recoil in pain. No one who had ever dared to lay hands on Watson before had gotten away with anything less than a concussion from me, but here I was again absolutely powerless to help.

I watched, my blood boiling within me, as Watson was hit again and again. My friend tried feebly to avoid the blows, but had little success. I kept my face covered by my usual emotionless façade, however. I had no desire to let Hughes have even the smallest satisfaction of knowing he had hurt me through his torture of Watson.

Besides, now was not the time to let blasted emotions cloud my judgement.

Hughes ceased after a few minutes of abuse and looked toward me. The devil hadn't even broken a sweat, and was utterly unfazed by the pained moans of my companion.

"I'm not going to waste as much time on your _friend_ as I did the last time, Holmes," he said. "Though I know you can't _stand_ it." He flashed a fiendish smile at me at these last words.

He sauntered towards the door in his rough yet well-bred fashion, and then turned to face me once more.

"And I am _not_ going to waste as much time as I did the last, either. You'll get no food, no water, and enough abuse, I assure you, until I decide it's time for you to die. And that will be soon enough, because I intend on leaving Paris within the week. Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I must go and attend to some business which you delayed me from, but I shall return shortly," with a solemn, gentlemanly face that hid his fiery interior, he bowed very slightly, mockingly, and departed from our presence, his men following.

It was something for which I was extremely grateful. I looked over to Watson, who was sitting up from where he had fallen onto his back from the blows.

"Are you all right?" I asked quickly.

"…Well enough." he replied after righting himself with a grunt.

His hands were cuffed before him instead of behind him as mine were, and so he had managed to block some of the punches Hughes had dealt so harshly, but it took no great observation to see that he was now much worse off than he was. He grimaced yet again as he settled himself against the wall, leaning his head back. The bruise on his forehead was a nasty colour, and I knew that with it, the chloroform, and the beating he had just endured, his head must be aching terribly.

"Headache?" I asked.

Watson nodded.

I sighed. Even if there was something I could do to help him, our beds were too far apart. After a few moments Watson spoke.

"When do you think he will return?"

"I'm not sure," I replied. "It all depends on how long this 'business' of his takes."

I glanced over at Watson as he sighed miserably, knowing he was in pain but not being able to do a thing about it, and then shifted my gaze to the floor. My mind raced. We had less time to escape than the last, and certainly much less opportunity. And now we had no hope of Mycroft sending Scotland Yard to the rescue. No one knew where we are--not even us. And no one even knew that we were in danger.

It was entirely my fault that we were in this situation. The first time, it was my fault for not realising that Hughes would possibly go after Watson. This time it was because we had left our place of safety due to _my_ boredom, and had been captured. And it was more than a mere threat now—it was positive danger.

I must completely clear my mind of all fear and distraction and focus entirely on our escape. No detail, regardless of how trifling it may seem, would go unscrutinised. Anything that could lead to our escape was vital.

"Holmes…?" Watson said, breaking into my thoughts.

"Yes?" I asked, looking up.

"There isn't much hope for us this time, is there?"

"…No." I replied truthfully.

There was no point in prevaricating with him now. Not when the situation was so obvious and so dire.

"Why is he this…brutal? So devilish?" Watson asked.

Even after all this time, he had difficulty in fathoming how any human could be so capable of such atrocities against their fellowman. I smiled slightly at his innocence.

"He seems to be a devil incarnate, doesn't he? He has no scruples whatsoever, Watson—truly a venomous man. I have told you that he comes from a rich family, and he seems to have been quite spoilt. I heard that he started his criminal life when he began doing poorly in university and needed more money than his parents were allotting him to feed his gambling habit—but this I only learned by word of mouth, and cannot be sure. The first crime that I can truly trace to him and support with evidence was a case of fraud five years ago. The man will do absolutely anything for his pleasure and purposes. His web of crime only really spreads across England and certain cities in America, but with his renowned fiendish temper he uses fear to control his men extremely effectively, which makes his organisation seem much stronger and larger than it actually is. His crimes are so common in their execution, but so well planned, that they are nearly impossible to trace. That is why he felt so immune to attack."

"And also why, when he felt you on his trail, he began to panic somewhat."

"Precisely."

"But if he was so undetectable, how were you set upon his trail?"

"A woman, Watson. Hughes is handsome, and uses women just as he does money, position, and other people: selfishly and for his own pleasure. One of his ill-used women came to me for help. A poor creature she was…broken, desperate, and crying her wrenched heart out to me. To help me undo this man Hughes she brought with her information—things she had overheard and seen—of his illicit dealings."

"I do not remember this woman."

"You were out that day, as I recall. It wasn't anything of danger at first, which is why I didn't involve you in it."

"And then, when you had gone deep enough into it, Hughes came to you."

"Indeed. And I still regret neglecting to realise that he could go after you."

"I should have been more aware of my surroundings that day, my dear Holmes."

"Perhaps." said I.

I paused a moment, thinking.

"I had no idea that he had so many criminal contacts in Paris. I _know_ that his criminal influence did not reach this far…perhaps the French criminal needed a little bit of help in America or England from time to time, and obviously one way to get this help was through Hughes. That would allow him to call in favours they owed him—leading us to our current position."

"Which is waiting for Hughes to return, so that he may beat us both to death."

"Unfortunately, that is so. We've taken him from his life of extreme comfort and thrown him into the sordid life of a convict. His pride could not stand it."

I leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.

"We cannot just sit and wait for our death, Holmes." Watson said.

"I know." I sighed quietly.

A slight noise caught my ears, and I looked over to my companion. I perceived that he was shivering. It _was_ rather cold in this blasted room. I fumbled behind me and located the only meagre blanket I had been provided with.

"Here, Watson." I said, and with a tricky bit of manoeuvring, I threw the thin covering over to him.

"But, Holmes…" Watson began, "You need this."

"You are cold." said I.

"But you shall be too when you try to sleep to-night."

I smiled.

"Well," said my friend, a slight smile breaking onto his own face, "of course _you're_ not going to sleep. But you will catch pneumonia."

"I am sure that I shall be fine. And if I get too cold, I will let you know."

That, of course, was not true. But I was in a better condition to last out any chill right now than he was.

Watson was hesitant for a moment, but he then pulled it and his own blanket up about him.

"Thank you, Holmes."

"Mm."

I drew up my legs and curled up as comfortably as I could on that ragged bed, preparing for the wait until Hughes returned. I did not look forward to the torture that was sure to come.

* * *

**KS****: Thanks for reading! Please, review!**


	21. Temper

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

* * *

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter twenty-one of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I recently thought of a way I could have done Paris differently, and I think it really could have made it so much better, but I'm this far into it, so... This is how the story's going for now. XD**

**This chapter**** starts in Holmes's POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It had been nearly two hours since Hughes had left, and it was true that I was starting to feel the damp chill. I pulled my legs up closer to my chest. Watson had been fairly silent, and was now lightly dozing, having wrapt himself in the threadbare blankets. My mind was still on the seemingly hopeless problem of our escape when again I heard voices from the other side of the door.

There was a noise of a key being inserted and turned in the lock, and it quickly opened to admit two solid men, and following them was Hughes himself. Apparently the affair that had taken him away had angered him greatly, for despite his obvious attempts at a calm composure his fair features were somewhat flushed, and his chest rose and fell quickly with each breath.

As he calmed himself his breathing evened out, and his fiery green eyes scanned slowly over us. They at last fell upon Watson's ankle—the injured one—and narrowed deviously.

Before I could shout a warning, Hughes drew back his leg and kicked my friend's foot sharply, eliciting a gasp of pain from Watson as he started awake violently. I clenched my teeth and repressed the intense anger I was feeling. If Hughes thought his torture of Watson didn't affect me, he may not continue. Though I doubted the likeliness of that.

Hughes then turned around to face me, his eyes flashing. Without hesitation he boldly stepped over and punched me furiously in the jaw, my head snapping back dangerously with the force. He wasted no time before dealing another harsh blow. With my hands cuffed firmly behind my back, I could do very little to resist. I struggled and succeeded in softening some of the blows, but the man's anger was apparent.

Even though he had just begun, I knew that if he continued striking me this way I was very likely to be seriously injured, or even killed. I curled into a ball, trying to protect my abdomen and face.

Just then, the door to the room opened, and a man peered inside.

"Mr…um, Boss, sir…" he muttered, his voice timid but loud enough to be heard over the din of Hughes's rage.

Hughes stopped, turning to face the newcomer.

"What is it, Smith?" he asked.

"Mr. Rochester is in the parlour for you."

Hughes's eyes widened a bit in surprise.

"_Rochester_? What the deuce is he doing _here_?!"

He then turned back to me, scowled, and grasped me by the throat.

I was sure then that he had finally decided to kill me. He pulled me up and pushed me against the wall; his strong fingers tightened on my throat menacingly as he fixed me with an icy glare.

"I'll finish this later," he said, putting his face as close to mine as he dared. "You will regret sticking that long nose of yours into my affairs."

I gave no response. I met his gaze with a frigid look of my own, devoid of any emotion. He released me and gave one last glare before turning on his heel to leave the room.

"MacDonald, stay and keep your eyes on them." he said to one of the men with him as he left.

The other two followed him, and when the door closed behind them I sighed and straightened myself carefully, biting back what pain arose. I seemed to be all right, despite my mistreatment. I was very fortunate that yet another piece of business arose for Hughes, and that what abuse he did manage to inflict wasn't more damaging.

As I thought, I suddenly remembered Watson. He had witnessed that entire ordeal. I turned my head quickly to see how my Boswell was faring.

He was staring at me, and his face—now fully alert—was full of absolute horror at what he had just seen. I felt a distinct tightening in my chest...What had just occurred must have been completely terrifying for him to see.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" he breathed after a moment.

I nodded, and tried my best to put on a reassuring smile.

"Yes, Watson, I'm fine." I replied.

Hopefully, his medical instincts wouldn't tell him otherwise.

* * *

_**WATSON**__**:**_

I didn't believe Holmes entirely, but I could see that I was going to get no more from him on the subject. With his pride, he hated anyone worrying over him, especially when it came to emotions. His keen eyes were now focused on my ankle.

"How is it?" he asked.

"It hurts again." I said, gingerly checking it as much as I could with my manacled hands. "He may have reversed what healing had occurred."

"How badly?"

"It's difficult to say."

Holmes sighed softly, casting a sidelong glance to the guard. I could tell that he wanted to talk to me more, but he would want to use discretion with that guard here. We were nowhere near each other, so we could not whisper, and unlike Holmes I could not read lips very well.

Holmes shifted—he was worried, yes, but I could see that he was also getting very bored, and his spirit was despising this inaction. We would have to converse…there was nothing else _to_ do. But before I could think of a subject, the guard initiated the conversation for us.

"You're bloody lucky the boss had a visitor," he said with a half-grin. "That first bit o' business had him angry—I reckon he was nearly ready to kill you just now. He blames this whole mess on you…Every time something new comes up he's been 'bout wantin' to cut off yer head. I'd say he was lettin' off some steam."

"He certainly has a temper." said Holmes dryly.

The man laughed, repositioning his muscular bulk on the small seat more comfortably.

"I'm not going to deny that, sir. I'll tell you well enough, it doesn't pay to make Mr. Hughes angry."

"Why did you come to France along with him, if he's so harsh?" Holmes asked.

"The boss' persuasions are very good." The guard replied, his tone a bit less good-humoured than before.

The man stretched a bit, yawning slightly.

"Besides, it's 'cause of you my brother got the rope, so I got something against you, too. I don't know when the boss is gonna kill you, or how he's gonna do it, but I wish he'd get it over with. I want to go further onto the continent. 'S supposed to be pretty this time o' year." He looked over at us with a smirk in his brown eyes. "The boss would've killed you already if it wasn't for all these people showing up. Yer a bit lucky, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I'd enjoy what little bit of life you've got left."

This morbid conversation ceased, and I was left with a very ill feeling in the pit of my stomach. Our time grew ever shorter, and we were excrutiatingly low on options.

I prayed that this would not end as I feared it would.

* * *

**KS****: Thanks for reading; don't forget to review!**

**Sorry for the short chapter. I have a new SH pic on dA to make up for it, perhaps. xD**


	22. A Wire

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**KS: Halloa to all you readers! Welcome to chapter twenty-two of On the Streets of Paris, the sequel to Brother. Finally, here comes some more interesting stuff. I think that, even though this chapter is a little bit short, that you'll find it all right. At least, I hope so. XD**

**This chapter starts out in a third person omniscient POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Jackson Hughes unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt as he prepared for bed.

Blast it, why did Rochester have to show up? The man was a windbag if any had ever lived!

He wanted someone killed in exchange for his keeping silent on Hughes's location—some family friend, indeed! But then, not only had he offered his silence, but he also was willing to give seven hundred pounds to have the deed done. That was money badly needed for the flight from the police. All the money he had now was from a small savings he had put away for such a situation as this, and it wasn't much. He hadn't thought he'd ever need it, but now he saw that it had been a prudent move.

Hughes lit a cigarette, taking a long draw off of it as he stared out of his window onto the dirty backstreets of Paris.

He was better than this. How had this happened? How could he have _let_ this happen? It was all the fault of Sherlock Holmes. The man meddled too deep in the affairs of criminals; it was if he had some death wish!

The blackguard scowled at the thought. He had been perfectly happy before, with all the money and power he could ever want right at the tips of his fingers. He should have just killed Holmes when he had the chance, instead of wasting time prolonging his misery. And that is precisely what he intended on doing this time. The only reason that Sherlock Holmes was not lying in a pool of his own blasted blood is that Hughes was far too tired to deal with him to-night. To-morrow he would do it, first killing the Doctor, then Holmes.

It would be immensely gratifying to finally have his revenge.

Hughes extinguished his cigarette on the window-sill and trudged over to his bed. One more slumber, and it would be time for Holmes to die.

* * *

_**WATSON**_**:**

It was growing very late, and I wondered whether Hughes was coming back to-night at all. I hoped desperately that his visitor had taken up all of his time, for I did not wish to see Holmes beaten so dreadfully and mercilessly ever again. His face from that last beating, filled with pain and desperation, was seared into my memory. I wished fervently that I could find a way to escape, but I knew that if Holmes could not think of anything, then we truly were in grave danger.

I did not want to see my friend die.

My companion, my _friend_, the champion of justice...what would the world do without him? A world without Sherlock Holmes was unthinkable to me now. The very idea of it sent a shudder through me.

With that shudder, I realised it how very cold I was.

The two thin, threadbare blankets were doing very little to protect me from the chill, damp air. Holmes and I had apparently been stripped of our coats once more in the villain's search for weapons, and were dressed only in our shirts, trousers, and waistcoats. I looked over to my friend, wondering how he could stand to be without any defence against the cold whatsoever.

Holmes was, to my surprise, asleep. Apparently even his iron will could eventually succumb to necessities such as rest. He had drawn his long, thin legs up to his aquiline nose to keep as warm as possible, but I knew it wasn't enough, for I saw him shivering lightly. I didn't want to wake him; he slept so infrequently during a case normally, and never when we were in great danger. If I threw the blankets back to him, he would probably awaken. He never was a very heavy sleeper.

I decided on giving him the blankets. It would be unfortunate if he woke, but he did not need to catch a chill. As I moved to start manoeuvring the two coverings, I felt a sharp prick through the bed. I sat up. There was something underneath me in the mattress.

I glanced over at the stocky man that was now guarding us—he was dozing lightly, his head sunken upon his breast.

Good.

I turned as noiselessly as I could and started to inspect the mattress with my cuffed hands. Half way through my search I heard a noise behind me and turned quickly, only to see that it was Holmes stirring in his sleep. With a sigh of relief I turned and continued my search.

After a few minutes, I finally succeeded in locating a piece of wire. My heart swelled within me—this could be our chance!!

"Holmes…!!" I whispered, casting a wary glance at the guard. "Holmes!"

At first I thought he was still asleep, but after a short moment he stirred, raising his head to look at me.

"Hm…? Watson?" he muttered. "What is it?"

Casting another glance at the guard, I smiled at my friend.

"I found something." I said almost noiselessly.

Holmes sat up straighter.

"...What? What did you find?"

This time, I let no breath pass my lips, but moved them to tell of my discovery.

"A wire. In my bed."

Holmes's eyes grew wide, and then I saw a smile flit across his pale, worn face. He looked over at the guard and, finding him asleep, turned back to me with an intense face. It was an admirable opportunity.

"Pass it over to me." he said.

I was smiling, also, but at his words my smile faded. How was I supposed to get it to him? My hands were before me, but his were behind his back, and we had very little room for error—the slack in the chains that held us to our beds was very small.

"Toss it, Watson." I heard him say firmly.

It was our only chance.

I turned, positioning myself so that—hopefully—I would be able to throw it exactly where it needed to be. If I missed and Holmes could not reach it, or if I missed and it clattered to the floor, we would lose what was possibly our only opportunity of escape. I held my breath and tossed the wire.

* * *

_**HOLMES**_**:**

I watched as the thin piece of metal flew through the air, coming to rest on my bed well within my reach. I smiled at Watson, who sighed with relief.

Good man.

I shifted around so that I could take it in my hands, keeping both a careful eye and ear out for any sign that the guard would awaken, or that Hughes was returning.

The wire was rather thin, but I was sure that I could manage to undo the lock without it breaking. It would just take concentration.

I situated myself with my back to the wall and inserted the piece of metal into the keyhole. I began to move it about carefully, listening. It was a simple set of cuffs…I should have absolutely no trouble…

After a moment, I heard a small click. I had done it. I opened the derbies, my hands now free, and rubbed my sore wrists vigorously to return the circulation to them. The guard was thankfully still asleep, and I looked at Watson, who was smiling. I did not permit myself a smile, however. This was the most simple part. Our difficulties were just beginning. We would have to make our way out of this building and to the police without being recaptured or killed.

I was certain of one thing...it would not be as easy as it was the last time.

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**KS:**** Thanks for reading, do not forget to review! Please! **

**I didn't get to edit it as I liked, so pardon me for any mistakes!**


	23. Attic

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Welcome to chapter twenty-three of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I'm terribly sorry for the slow updates—it really can't be helped at this time. XD But I shall try harder to make things more…orderly and quick.**

**A big thanks goes to KCS for helping me out with this chapter (as she has done with others). This time, I felt the chapter was too empty—not padded out enough. KCS gave me a sampling of what she would have done with a bit of a section to make it more Watsonian, and I took her advice, putting it a bit into my own words.**

**And pardon me for any strange-sounding sentences or grammatical errors--even with the slow updates, I did not get to check this chapter as much as I'd like. XD**

**This one starts off in Watson's POV.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

After freeing himself Holmes came over to me and released my hands from the rusty derbies that held them fast. I rubbed my wrists sorely as I got up from the bed. I felt a little stiff, but I was sure that wouldn't be too much of a hindrance. What _would_ be a problem, however, was my ankle. It had already been quite sore, and still a long time from healing, but Hughes's earlier assault had made the pain almost unbearable.

Holmes put a finger to his lips, motioning for me to be quiet as he stepped towards the sleeping guard.

I held my breath yet again as my friend knelt quietly beside the slumbering figure and carefully removed the keys from his watch chain. I feared that he would make some sudden movement or noise and wake the guard, but my fears were unnecessary—I was even amazed at how noiselessly he managed it.

After he had safely secured the keys he pressed his ear to the door, listening for signs of activity on the other side. He apparently heard nothing, for he drew his head back and began to try the keys on the lock. He tried two before finding the right one, and he turned it cautiously until it opened with a loud click. I looked over to the guard; he was still, thankfully, asleep. When I turned back Holmes had opened the door just slightly and was peering outside.

After making sure the corridor outside was clear, he beckoned to me to follow. I tried to walk, but when I put weight upon my injured ankle I grimaced, and only with a great effort did I prevent myself from crying out. Holmes noticed this and frowned, his steely eyes softened with concern. Quickly he came over to me, and before I could even try to protest he put my arm around his thin shoulders and guided me toward the door.

I was moved by my friend's concern; I would have to remember to thank him later when we were no longer in danger.

He led me outside and turned, locking the door behind us—undoubtedly to prevent the guard from raising the alarm when he finally woke. When we were at last alone out in that open corridor my stomach tightened and my heart thrummed heavily within my breast. We could afford no false moves. Neither of us knew where we were, nor where we were going, and every move we made could spell danger. And yet Holmes had to slow himself down just to help me, invalid that I was at the moment! I cursed my weakness. How could I even protect him if we did run into danger?

Holmes looked in both directions down the short passage. Both looked similar, having doors at each end and a few other doors along the way. Holmes wasted no time and started off toward the left, leading me carefully but quickly to the end. I felt trepidation with every step, but our chances out here were immensely better than they would be if we stayed in that room. Even the slightest glimpse of freedom was better than certain death.

When we reached the door at the end we found it was locked—we could either pick the lock, or go to the other end of the corridor. I felt Holmes's grasp on my shoulder tighten as he turned and led me back toward the other door. Hopefully this one we could use.

We found that it was unlocked, and after listening carefully for noise on the other side Holmes opened it to reveal a dingy stairwell. I silently thanked God—we could now hopefully make our way downstairs without interference. In my condition our descent was difficult and painful, but with Holmes's aid we were progressing well. The steps were thankfully not too noisy, and we were almost to the next landing when Holmes froze.

"What is it?" I asked as loudly as I dared when he stopped me.

My friend's entire demeanour was one of concentration. His grey eyes widened, and he turned me and started helping me to quickly ascend the stairs again. The suddenness and urgency with which he moved placed some strain on my ankle, but I knew that if Holmes suspected something, I would indeed be a fool to question him.

When we had reached the door to the floor we had just quitted I finally heard what Holmes's keener senses had already discerned: voices from somewhere below. My blood started to chill. If they were going to our former place of confinement and realised we were absent…! And we were going up—we would be trapped, surely. But there was no other way to go.

Holmes continued to lead me rapidly up the stairs, and I could only hope that each creak of the old staircase was not heard by whoever was coming up behind us. When we reached the top and stepped through the door we found that it was some sort of attic. Thick, powdery dust covered the many high-stacked boxes and crates, and the small, dirty windows allowed only a little moonlight to filter through, giving the entire place a ghastly appearance that did not help with the bleak mood of our situation. There was certainly no way out except for the way we came, and that way was not an option.

Holmes put his lips close to my ear, his voice hardly audible.

"Let's find some cover. If they find us missing, they might look up here." he whispered.

I nodded, not sure if he saw the gesture or not, but knowing it would matter little—he knew me well enough to know that I would follow him wherever he went.

We started forward across the dust-covered planks, a few of them groaning under our weight. We found a place to rest behind some boxes far back in a dark corner, and there we stayed. From there we had only a limited view of the rest of the room, but it seemed to be the best place to conceal ourselves. We waited nervously, crouched in the darkness. The silence was utterly absorbing, and it almost seemed fragile enough to physically shatter at the first sound.

I felt Holmes's grip tighten on my shoulder, and in a moment I saw a light and heard a noise from the door. My heart began to race, and my palms to sweat. How I wished I had my revolver! As the footsteps and creaking of the floorboards echoed through the stillness, my ankle began to ache all the more. I was not in any particularly painful position, but it was just uncomfortable enough that I longed to move. But I would just have to endure the pain for now, for I could not chance moving and making a noise that would give us away.

The light—apparently from a lantern—was drawing closer, accompanied by slow, methodical steps. Holmes's hands clenched tightly on my shoulders as he crouched behind me, and I realised at that time what must have already passed through his swifter mind—our footprints! They were surely visible in the thick dust—the man couldn't possibly miss them! And if he saw them, we were dead men for sure.

But, if he had seen them, then why was he still moving so slowly, instead of rousing the house?

My ankle throbbed more and more with every rapid beat of my heart as I tried my best to breathe noiselessly, or not at all. The beam of light swung closer in our direction, but we did not even dare to move down to huddle closer to the floor. I was completely still save my watchful eyes and trembling hands. Behind me I could feel the suppressed energy of my friend; I knew that even now his formidable mind was formulating a plan to dispense of the man with as little noise and trouble as possible, if it became necessary to do so.

The steps drew closer, and I felt as if my heart would beat out of my chest. I prayed desperately that nothing would shift around us and disclose our precarious position, especially since I was in no position to spring up and assist Holmes with the man.

I cannot express my unspeakable relief when the light veered away from us—towards the windows, and Holmes's tight, painful grip relaxed ever so slightly. I heard a soft noise like the lantern being set down and then I heard the lid of one box creak open loudly upon being pushed open. It seemed as if the man was searching for something else entirely—quite possibly our escape hadn't even been noticed yet! My relief was short lived, however, as I heard a cry from below.

"THEY'RE GONE!!" called the voice, loud enough to rouse the whole house.

I felt the pressure of Holmes's hands on my shoulders increase again at the sound, and I saw the light from the lantern quickly turn toward the exit, as if in surprise. The lid of the box was hurriedly closed and the room's other occupant quickly rushed away from us, leaving us alone when he slammed the door behind him.

I let out my breath with a hiss and nearly lost my balance as I shifted my weight off of my cramped ankle at last. Holmes took my arm and aided me in regaining my feet, his eyes darting nervously about as the sounds of the alert spread like a plague from below.

"What are we going to do, Holmes?" I asked.

Holmes's brow furrowed in concentrated thought.

"We shall stay up here for now." he said. "We cannot go down now—not when it is as active and dangerous as an overturned beehive."

"But what if they come back up here?"

"We shall just have to hide," said Holmes. "We cannot do much. We are outnumbered, and your ankle will not allow you to be of much assistance in a fight. Hopefully, they will not think to look up here. But, I cannot say that they won't; Hughes is a clever man and will stop at nothing to find us. We will just have to be quiet, careful, and watch for our chance."

* * *

_**Third Person Omniscient POV**_

There was a loud knock on the door of Jackson Hughes's bedroom door.

"Sir!" called a voice from the other side. "Sir, wake up!"

The broad-shouldered form of Hughes rolled over in his bed, moaning with irritation. He finally sat up and ran a hand over his face groggily, his sandy-blonde hair heavily tousled from sleep.

"What is it!?" he growled.

The door opened, and in looked the nervous little man that had first reported the two captives' wakefulness. He was as sickly white as the underbelly of a fish, and was sweating profusely. Hughes narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"What is it?" he asked again sharply, sensing something amiss.

"The…prisoners, sir. We…c-can't find them."

Hughes's eyes flashed fire.

"_What_!!" he spat.

"It seems they've escaped, sir…"

The infuriated Hughes sprang up from his bed, snatching up his boots and stockings from a chair nearby.

"Someone will pay for this," he snarled as he stormed out of the room. "By _God_, I'll have someone's blood this time."

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**KS****: Oooh, what's going to happen next? Review, and hopefully the chapter will come soon!!**


	24. Roof

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Welcome to chapter twenty-four of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. We are drawing closer and closer with each chapter to the end—I thank you for being fairly patient with me through these slow updates, and I hope you feel your time hasn't been wasted. Just a while more to go! I hope you continue to enjoy!**

**Again, also, I'd like to thank KCS, who beta-read the chapter and suggested some parts that were very helpful. **

**This one starts**** off in another Third-person omniscient POV.**

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Jackson Hughes stormed furiously through the house toward the room where he had been holding Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. How could they have _possibly_ escaped this time!? That Holmes seemed able to perform the impossible. Hughes brushed angrily past his scurrying subordinates, who were busy searching the house for the so-called 'Great Detective' and his biographer. One way or another, Holmes would die to-night.

He neared the door of his destination and snatched the key from the man beside it, thrusting it into the lock with a twist and entering swiftly.

"Who—McAlister! How the blazes did they escape this time!!" Hughes snarled, setting eyes upon the room's only occupant.

The man that had been on duty when Holmes had escaped was still in his chair, sweating profusely, and he jumped at the sound of his boss' voice.

"I-I…I…don't know, sir," he replied, nearly too frightened for words. "I woke up to Smith shouting at me, and…and they were gone, sir."

Hughes's blazing green eyes flashed around the room, then to the door, then back at the deathly pale guard.

"If it wasn't for Holmes we could still be in England, or New York, or Chicago…but instead we're running for our bloody _lives_. If Holmes gets away and finds a policeman, it's all over. I thought I made it clear how important this was." Hughes reached into his hip pocket. "I don't have time for your mistakes…you've put all our necks on the line. That's intolerable and unforgivable."

Hughes pulled out his revolver and aimed it at the man's heart. McAlister didn't even have time to scream before the trigger was pulled.

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_**WATSON**_**:**

It had been several minutes since the alarm was first raised and we were left alone in the dark attic. There was much shouting and scuffling about downstairs, and I fidgeted nervously on my seat atop a small box. Holmes was busy in our corner of concealment, searching among the other boxes, and I was just about to ask him what he was doing when the report of a gun rang loudly through the air, shattering the brittle silence. I jumped violently, and the movement jarred my ankle. I stifled a cry, hissing through my teeth at the pain. Holmes was at my side in an instant, his cold, thin hand grasping my shoulder firmly. We waited for a few minutes in the silence that followed the shot, listening intently.

"What…what was that, Holmes?" I whispered when my nerves had settled themselves enough to allow me to speak.

"…I think that Hughes is growing impatient." my friend replied after a pause.

He stood up a little straighter, reaching back to grab something, and then sat back down next to me.

"Here," said he, handing me a stick.

"For defence?" I asked.

"To help you walk—to get away. Hopefully we will not be in a situation where we need to defend—"

Suddenly my friend stopped speaking. He held his hand up for me to be silent, and I listened closely. After a moment I heard footsteps outside…more than one set. The door to the attic opened, and yellow shafts of light flashed into the room, illuminating various corners—they were searchers!

Holmes pulled me closer to the floor as the men entered, the light from their lamps sweeping across the pale grey of the dusty atmosphere. I was thankful that Holmes had covered part of our tracks from earlier as much as was possible, but there was no way that we would be able to avoid being seen by so many. There were four men that I could count…one of them had remained in the doorway. Holmes's hand slipped into mine and gave it a reassuring shake, as if to say that everything would be all right.

Our eyes stayed trained upon the three men as they searched; we would eventually have to move, or else they would certainly see us. Holmes released my hand quickly and I felt his arm slip under mine, pulling me upward. Apparently he thought it was time for us to relocate. I managed to get to my feet without grunting, still staying very low. It was most uncomfortable for my ankle, but during the war I had been through far worse. I clenched my teeth and endured the pain. Holmes led me, carefully and quietly, away from our hiding place to a spot behind another stack of boxes which had already been searched.

It seemed quite hopeless to me. I could not see how they would be able to overlook the disturbed dust of where we had been. I could not see how we would not be recaptured, and swiftly murdered. I decided that if they did see us, I would fight with my stick. I would not allow them to have Holmes without a struggle, even if it cost my life. We huddled down behind the other set of boxes and waited. One searcher's lantern swept over the spot where we had been, not even slowing.

Thankfully, somehow the man hadn't noticed our traces.

I nearly sighed with relief, but our rest was not to be for long. Holmes quickly guided me to another spot; we would of course have to move several times to avoid a searcher stumbling upon us. As we moved to our new spot, my heart leapt into my throat as I heard one man begin to speak.

"Why are we even looking up here? For God's sake, who in their right mind would go _up_ when trying to escape?" said the searcher.

"Someone who can't go _down_, Jacobs," said another. "Don't be stupid. Maybe there was somebody on the floor below at the time."

"Maybe they _did_ go down…There's nobody up here. Let's go back down before the boss decides to kill us for wasting time…"

The lights turned toward the door.

"Should we check the roof?"

"Naw, the door to it's locked. I checked it myself. There's no way they'd be up there...'less they were magicians."

"Let's hurry back down…no telling what the boss'll do now…"

"We're all in for it if we don't find 'em…d'you think it's too late to run away ourselves?"

"Don't say _that…_"

"Well, let's send Smith back up with the key to lock up the attic. We can say that we looked and made sure everything was secure."

"Right. Good idea."

And with that, the door shut behind the last of the searchers. We again waited for another moment before daring to leave the cover and safety of the boxes. At last, when the sounds of footsteps going down the stairs were long faded, Holmes helped me to my feet.

"Come, Watson," said he, "we're going."

"Going?" I asked. "Going where?"

"To the roof." Holmes replied, helping me along.

"Why to the roof? The men just said that it was locked."

"It is the only place where they will _not_ be looking, Watson. I'm afraid it's our only choice." said Holmes as he cautiously opened the door, putting his eye to the gap and glancing out.

"It's clear for now. Come."

We crept out into the stairwell once again, Holmes's entire manner one of intense anxiety and caution as he moved about like a prowling cat. I followed as best I could, hobbling along with my stick, and we crept up the very short flight of stairs to the door that led out onto the roof, my ankle burning with pain at each step. From his waistcoat pocket Holmes drew a thin piece of metal, which he inserted into the lock.

"Wherever did you get that, Holmes?" I remarked quietly in surprise.

"I took it from among the things in the attic." My friend replied, his concentration on the door. "Watch and listen _very _carefully, Watson. Warn me if anyone is coming."

My friend worked furiously upon the lock as I kept watch with utmost care for any signs of danger. In a moment I heard the lock give behind me and the door open.

"Quick, Watson!" my friend whispered.

I turned and followed, quite ready to find a place where the waves of searching men would be far less likely to look.

I breathed deeply the fresh air that met me once out of doors. The Parisian night was clear and crisp—much better than the musty attic, and better by far than that dungeon of a room they had kept us in. I could even see the stars high above our heads in the sky, twinkling brightly as if they shared in my joy. Freedom was not ours yet, but the sweet relief of being outside again was nearly enough to settle my wracked nerves.

But they would be shaken much deeper. My heart leapt into my mouth as behind me I heard a scuffle and a cry, along with a sickeningly familiar click.

"Don't move, Holmes." said an icy voice.

I whirled round upon my ankle, ignoring the vicious pain of the movement. There stood Jackson Hughes, just as imposing as ever, with his strong arm pinning my companion's arms to his sides and the barrel of a revolver pressed firmly against his neck.

"HOLMES!!" I cried.

"How the deuce did you get up here?" Holmes asked, his tone mildly annoyed but his eyes betraying his nervousness.

"It is very simple, Mr. Holmes…" Hughes began slowly. "You had not gone downstairs. Of that I was almost certain—and even if you had, you could _not_ escape that way. You had gone up. I had four men go into the attic, your only possible refuge, and say that it was useless to search the roof. I told them also to say as they were leaving that they would have the attic locked…Which would then leave you no choice but to go onto the roof. You're a clever man, Holmes. Very clever. _Too_ clever. You've made me into a fugitive…I shall make you into a corpse. But first…"

Hughes lowered his face next to Holmes's ear, his words barely audible.

"But first…I will make you watch your friend die. Slowly. _Painfully_," he breathed, hate dripping from every word.

My friend's eyes widened, and for the first time I saw them fill with terror. That fear was not for himself, but for me.

"No, Hughes," Holmes said. "Watson has _nothing_ to do with this. I did my job, and you see I did it well, but he did nothing. Just let him go, and…" he paused, his grey eyes flitting to me. "…and he won't tell the police where you are."

"I don't _care!!_" Hughes snarled, shaking my friend for emphasis and pressing the revolver tighter against his sinewy throat. "It isn't about _him._ It's about _you_."

I saw as the light of an idea flashed across Holmes's face, bringing hope to his eyes.

"All right…then let's have it. A boxing match. A fight between you and me. No weapons, just our fists."

Hughes's brow furrowed.

"You aren't even in my weight class." he said.

"And yet I am still proposing it."

"…You're a fool, Holmes."

"I've been told so before."

Hughes was silent a moment, and I saw indecision pass over his features.

"I want you _dead_, Holmes. Not broken…_dead_."

"You think you cannot win?"

"That will not work on me, Holmes. You're buying time."

"Perhaps," said my friend with perfect coolness, "but you know that you want to feel my skull under your knuckles just as much as I want to feel yours under mine."

Hughes scowled.

"True." he muttered.

He harshly shoved Holmes away from him, quickly bringing the revolver up to aim at his heart. I took a step forward, for I was not about to allow this to happen, but my ankle gave out as I did so and I nearly fell, righting myself as Hughes's strong voice lashed out again.

"What you say _is_ true, Holmes, but you're going to regret saying it. I have nothing to gain by fighting you, but nothing to lose, either. You realise that I have many men downstairs, all armed, who will come running at my first call—you cannot possibly try any tricks. It's completely against that logic of yours to bring a prolonged and torturous death upon yourself—spare us both the trouble, Holmes."

"I know that you shall kill me either way—but I challenge you just the same." said Holmes. "I offer you the chance to a good bout and the opportunity to release all of your blood-lust upon me…with one condition."

"And what is that?"

"If I win, you let Watson go."

I felt my face blanch. My mouth went dry and I choked over my words as Hughes smiled, considering the pain he would be able to inflict upon us both by accepting my friend's offer.

"I know you box, Holmes, but it is really not possible for you to win. You know my records."

"We shall see." said my friend sombrely, loosening his tie and studiously avoiding meeting my horrified gaze.

I tried desperately to think of something to say, something to _do_ to get us out of this—I could not allow Holmes to be beaten to death just for the slight chance that Hughes might actually keep his word and let me go!

"Holmes—"

"Keep quiet, Watson, and stay clear," my friend snapped viciously, his voice harsh not from irritation but from the emotion I knew he held but never dared to show.

I swallowed hard, backing away, all further protests dying in my throat as I read the inexorable purpose in his steel grey eyes. I knew my remonstrations would never triumph over what he was willing to do for me.

"I am going to enjoy this, I think." Hughes smirked devilishly, pocketing his weapon.

I knew that I did not want to see the horror that was to follow, but I could not bring myself to look away from the hopeless scene that was unfolding before me as my dearest friend Sherlock Holmes stood at bay, awaiting the final confrontation with this criminal, Jackson Hughes—one that promised no chance whatsoever of his survival.

And I, whose fate this battle would decide, was utterly powerless to stop it.

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**KS****: Thanks for reading! Go on and review, please!**

**Also, there's a new poll on my profile related to the story--go check it out!**


	25. Rooftop Battle

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Welcome to chapter twenty-five of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. This chapter took me a while to get to, but I've had the basic outline of it in my mind since the beginning. So! Please, enjoy!**

**And I am an idiot and forgot this in the first posting of this, but I remembered and came to fix it, so...**

**Another big thanks to KCS! She did a beta-read for me again. **

**This one starts**** off in Watson's POV.**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes and the fugitive from the law, Jackson Hughes, stood several paces apart, facing each other and glaring menacingly. My throat was dry and my ankle throbbed painfully as my heart raced, my mind searching desperately for a way to save us from our present situation.

Hughes's evil visage radiated a devilish sort of pleasure, but Holmes's aquiline features were stoic. I did not want to think of what could be running through his great mind at this moment, but I knew that part of it was about me. I wanted desperately to stop him, but I knew that I could never sway him from his decided course. And, deep down, I prayed that Holmes might win.

Holmes tossed his necktie to the side and took his stance, and I felt a slight rush as I thought of what an excellent boxer he was. Yes, there was a definite chance that he might be able to beat Hughes—and even possibly take his gun from him. That was our only chance now.

Hughes took his stance, raising his fists and positioning his feet, and I realised then from his posture that he must be a skilled boxer as well. That must have been what he had meant when he had talked about his records... A sickening nausea settled over me. So not only was he an accomplished boxer, but he was much heavier and more strongly set than my companion. And undoubtedly Holmes had known this as well when he had challenged Hughes.

As if on an unspoken cue, the two men closed the gap between them and began.

I watched as Holmes threw the first punch, a strong left, and Hughes raised his solid arm to receive the force of the blow—he wasn't even stunned in the slightest. Hughes took the opening, a slight opportunity, to launch a punch of his own. Holmes was too fast for him however, and his lithe form slid easily out of the way.

Hughes wasted no time after this first miss, assaulting Holmes with a series of fierce hits. Holmes managed to dodge out of the way of all of them but the last, which he was forced to try to guard himself against. The punch was so strong that, as it struck my friend's forearm, I heard him grunt, and the force of it sent him back several steps. He quickly recovered, however, and re-approached his opponent.

I was immensely grateful for his skill and knowledge of boxing as he delivered another punch, this time weaving through Hughes's defences and making firm contact with the blackguard's sharp jaw. Hughes's head went back for a moment, and when he looked back at my friend I could see shock in his eyes. He had not expected a man of Holmes's weight to have such power. And there was power enough in those wiry arms to straighten twisted iron pokers, as I well knew.

Hughes quickly recovered from his surprise and fiercely attacked, and Holmes was nearly overwhelmed. Three of the blows landed on my friend, the first striking him in the face on his cheek and sending him staggering back. The second landed at his midsection, doubling my friend over, and the third was dealt as Holmes was still bent, striking him full in the face and landing him flat on his back.

"HOLMES!" I gasped.

My friend sat up, and I saw the angry red mark of Hughes's fist beside his nose around his left eye.

"Stay back, Watson!" Holmes spat, getting to his feet and resuming his stance.

"You're a resilient one, Holmes," said Hughes as he rubbed his bare knuckles. "I've used that manoeuvre to finish off bigger men than you."

"And I have _fought_ larger men than you." Holmes said. "You're going to have to do better than that. Where is all of your hatred from earlier?"

Hughes glowered at my friend, his flashing eyes stormy under lowered brows.

"Oh, I'm just warming up. You shall see _plenty_ of hatred."

With a few steps they were together again and Hughes, with new ferocity, jabbed at my companion. Holmes slid out of the way of the punches, but it seemed as if he had more difficulty this time. Holmes found an opening and attacked, but his blows were deftly blocked by the skilled arms of his opponent. The speed and skill of their punches increased as both realised that neither was landing any blows, and it became difficult to properly keep up with each manoeuvre.

Finally I saw Holmes's thin arm dodge around Hughes's defences, striking him in the centre of his face. Hughes's thin nose gushed blood, and the man staggered back for a moment. He put his hand to his face, touching the fresh crimson flow, and looked at his fingers. His chest heaved at the sight; he kept his anger well in check, however, and quickly resumed the fight by advancing with a very well-delivered left.

Holmes managed to step out of the way, but was left unable to dodge the next, which hit him squarely in the jaw. Holmes's head turned, but he returned the blow, landing his next punch in nearly the same area on Hughes's chiselled face. Hughes spat out a tooth, and then fiercely retaliated, giving my friend a burst lip.

Neither showed any sign of stopping; I wondered how long they could possibly go on like this. Both were accomplished fighters of roughly the same height; Holmes had his speed, skill, and seemingly unnatural strength, and Hughes had his skill and sheer muscular power.

If Holmes didn't hurry, Hughes's henchmen could very well come up at any time, dashing any hopes of my or Holmes's survival.

Holmes landed a very good hit to both Hughes's midsection and shoulder, but that hardly slowed him. The fiend slammed Holmes under his ribcage, knocking the wind from him, and then delivered his next blow to the side of my companion's head. Another swift blow to the face had my friend backed against the balustrade, his nose bloodied, and Hughes then proceeded to deliver blow after merciless blow to Holmes's torso. It was agonising to watch; his attack was so rapid, so unrestrained, so _vicious_, that I knew that he was going to kill my friend. I could _not_ let this happen.

I ran towards them quickly. The pain from my ankle was excruciating, and I nearly fainted, but the gasps of pain emanating from my friend as he was being beaten to death made me press forward. When I was within ten feet of Hughes he spun around, drawing his revolver from his pocket and directing it at me.

"Stay where you are, Doctor." he snarled. "Or you won't live to see your friend lose."

I swallowed, nervously eyeing the gun barrel that was pointed at my heart. I would not falter now, not when Holmes's life was at stake.

"Please, Hughes," I said, forcing the words past my lips. "Please…stop."

A fiendish smile spread across Hughes's lips, his white teeth bared like a tiger's.

"Oh, this is good. The staunch biographer is begging." His face resumed his icy mask. "But it won't do you any good. Mr. Holmes and I made a deal. If you try to interrupt us…" he pulled back the hammer, "…then the deal will be off. There's no better way to hurt someone than killing the one person they care about, anyways."

My heart leapt into my mouth and my eyes widened as I realised he was going to shoot me.

I was startled by an almost animal cry as my friend jumped suddenly to his feet and grabbed Hughes. The two struggled desperately for a moment, straying dangerously close to the low balustrade as each tried to take the gun. Finally the pistol fell from Hughes's grasp, clattering to the street below, and Holmes wrestled free from his grip. Hughes's emerald eyes flashed, and he bared his teeth in an angry growl as he leapt at Holmes.

Holmes was ready for him, and when Hughes was in striking distance Holmes delivered a powerful strike to his jaw. The force of the blow made Hughes stagger back into the low railing around the roof's edge, and he clawed desperately at the air as he began to lose his balance. He toppled over the edge and slid down, and with a loud gasp he finally caught the very edge.

Holmes and I quickly made our way to the side and looked over; Hughes had a feeble grip on the brink, and he stared up at us with wide, terror-stricken eyes.

"Holmes!" he gasped, struggling to hold on. "Holmes, please!!"

His eyes darted back and forth between us, reminding me of an animal that knew it was about to die. Instinctively I started forward to help, to pull him back to safety as was my duty as a healer, but I felt two thin hands latch firmly upon my shoulder and arm, holding me back. I hesitated under Holmes's restraining grasp, my heart thudding uncertainly. Hughes swallowed, and I saw perspiration gathering upon his brow as his hand slipped another inch.

"Holmes!" he gasped again, more desperately than the last, "Y-you can't just let me die like this! I'll do anything, I swear it!!"

His grip was slipping slowly, inexorably.

"I will even let you go! Anything; I'll never bother you again! Please!!"

He was truly slipping now, his sweat only aiding the relentless, inching descent. I flinched, and Holmes's grasp tightened until it was so intense it was almost painful. His face, near to mine, was set in a stolid mask, bereft of either sympathy or anger for the man that was so slowly heading to his death before us.

It was clear that Holmes was going to let him fall, but could I, a doctor? Could I let a man fall to his death, even if he had just been beating my dearest friend to death? Holmes was hardly in any condition to stop me if I truly chose to move forward and help Hughes…what should I do…?

My heart jumped and my racing thoughts were brought back to reality as one of Hughes's hands lost its grip entirely, his whole body swinging as all his weight was held by just one hand. His face was filled with absolute dread and alarm. His green eyes, only a few moments ago so filled with passionate hate, were now softened with frantic pleading.

I stiffened, recognising the look from countless dying patients in the past, and moved forward out of pure instinct once more. Holmes yanked me back sharply with a force I had never seen him use on me before, holding me as the criminal wavered on the edge, his cries for help ringing in my ears as my breathing quickened.

I saw the pleading in his eyes change to a pathetic hopelessness as he realised that neither of us was going to help him.

At last his fingers slipped, and Hughes plummeted to the street far below. Holmes's hands tightened comfortingly on my arm as the man disappeared, only a quiet, choked cry escaped from Hughes's lips as we watched him fall to his death.

I shuddered and looked away before he struck the ground below, and was sickened by the thudding sound of his landing on the street three floors down. I only realised I was trembling when Holmes held me closer shakily, murmuring something I was too shocked to hear properly.

But I had no time to think about what I had just witnessed before my friend turned me round, away from the gruesome sight below.

"We could not have saved him if we tried, Watson." he said as he led me, his hand clutching his undoubtedly bruised stomach, only his eyes betraying the agony I knew he must be in.

I could tell that he wanted—even needed—to lean on me, but chose not to, for I was barely able to walk even with the assistance of my stick. Holmes paused, his eyes darting quickly and anxiously about the roof-top. I could almost see his pain-clouded brain working feverishly to think clearly. I saw him draw himself upright with an almost inhuman effort and turn to face me, willing the pain underneath a mask of calm and speaking clearly and firmly through a set jaw.

"We must find a way off this roof without being recaptured…I do not believe we could make it through the house, and we certainly can't go the way Hughes did." he said, and then he looked at me. "All of the pawns are still free to capture us; the game is not over yet. We are dead men if we cannot get away from here. Follow closely, and do exactly what I say."

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**KS****: Review, please! Thank you for reading!**


	26. Narrow Escape

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Welcome to chapter twenty-six of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**.**

**Sorry for the dreadfully slow updates—in addition to the busy life I now lead, I have, unfortunately, doing some serious cleaning and re-arranging in preparation for my switching ****and painting bedrooms. xD**

**Many thanks to ****KCS, who beta-read the chapter for me, and thanks also to bcbdrums because she is the one that looked up the French for me that I used in this chapter. Of course, she said it might not be perfect. But I think it gets the point across. XD**

**This one starts**** off in Holmes's POV.**

* * *

I would not admit it, but I was in absolute misery. My hand lay upon Watson's shoulder, but I refused to lean upon him for support. I could taste blood, and the pain in my body was enough to make any man want to double over, but I stood as erect as I possibly could. I did not want to dishearten Watson further; he was already rather shaken from seeing both Hughes's abuse of me and his death.

I was not so disturbed by witnessing the way Hughes had died, but I was rather surprised at the singular turn of events. Now I was quite uncertain of what course of action to take, a feeling that I most certainly did _not_ relish. Pain was clouding my mind; I could not remember hurting this badly in a very long time. I bit back all groans and forced calm resolve into my face, however, and focused my brain on the problem of making a successful escape.

I could see across the roof well enough, and in the corner I could tell there was a drainpipe. That could possibly work; though, with the condition of the building I had seen so far, I highly doubted that it would hold one man's weight, let alone two. We could not jump, lest we meet the same gruesome fate as Hughes, and to go back down through the house would take an absolute miracle to survive. The situation seemed absolutely hopeless. We were backed into a corner, and any action could easily bring forth the wolves. Some of those wolves were none too bright, but that advantage helped us little in our condition. I was rather badly bruised and beaten, and Watson's ankle had been worsened by Hughes's careless treatment of it earlier. We were also completely unarmed, save the stick Watson was now using to walk with.

"You can lean upon me if you need to, Holmes." Watson whispered, turning his face to me.

"No, Watson," said I, forcing the pain out of my voice, "I'm perfectly all right."

I do not think he believed me. Watson was not nearly as observant as I, but he was good at his profession, and I think he could perceive my agony. But, he did not press me further.

"Well, what can we do?" he asked.

I could not help but grimace as I turned slightly to face him; my ribs were bruised, and it was entirely possible that I had at least one broken.

"I do not think it will work, but we can try the drainpipe." I replied.

"At least we won't have dogs to worry about this time if it does." Watson snorted.

We proceeded as quickly as two crippled men _could_ go over to the drain, and I bent as much as I dared to, looking over the low balustrade.

"I don't believe it will hold us..." I winced as I bent further, pushing downward on the pipe.

Just as I had expected, it was too weak to hold us, but to my surprise it gave under my push and fell to the ground, landing with a loud crash. It was not very long before several of Hughes's men came out to investigate what had made the noise.

Thankfully it was not on the same side where their master now lay, or else their suspicions would have immediately been aroused.

With no other alternative and the opportunity of several men being outside, I decided that we would take the chance of going through the house. We had nothing else to try.

"Watson, do you think you can—" I began, but my friend answered before I could even get the question out.

"I'm sure I can make it, Holmes." he said. "You needn't worry about me."

"Good man." said I, patting him on the shoulder.

We started across the roof quickly and silently, and when we reached the door I pressed my ear to it, listening carefully. It seemed only prudent that Hughes should have at least one man at the other side.

"Give me your stick." I said, holding my hand out to Watson.

"My stick?" he asked.

"Yes, if you don't mind."

He gave me his stick, bracing himself with the area beside the doorframe to keep the weight from his injury. I sat my hand upon the doorknob and quickly turned it, flinging the door open. There was a lone man on the other side, and naturally he turned towards me. I used his momentary surprise at seeing me instead of Hughes to attack, hitting him quickly with the stick over his head and rendering him quite unconscious. My chest felt as if it was on fire after the quick strain of dealing the blow, but now was not the time to pay mind to my simple injuries. Watson hobbled his way to the doorway as I glanced downstairs, and I held out his stick for him after I was sure there was no one nearby.

"Perhaps you should keep it, Holmes," said he. "You are much better at fighting with sticks than I."

"Yes, but I cannot carry you at the present, I'm afraid, so you really must take your stick. And do forgive me if I have to take it back from you abruptly."

We made our way cautiously down the empty stairwell, I keeping all senses on the alert for any sign of danger. Ahead of us I could hear the sounds of Hughes's men moving about, though it was quieter than before. After our somewhat laborious descent we finally reached the bottom landing, and I listened through the door for activity. There wasn't a great amount of movement, but there were enough noises for me to know there were men on the other side, though I could discern none nearby. I held my finger to my lips as a sign for Watson to be quiet, though I doubted that he would be foolish enough to speak now anyways, and I opened the door a crack to peer outside.

There were men some distance away with their backs turned to us, chatting casually and smoking cigarettes, and several in the other direction were doing very much the same thing. Directly in front of us was a corridor leading to the front hall, intersected by openings that led undoubtedly to the parlour and some other similar room. It seemed as if we would have very little trouble in making it to the hall door, as long as we moved quietly and swiftly. But that would do us very little good if the front door was locked, which it would be, in all probability. I quietly shut the door and turned to Watson.

"I believe we must try to find another way out." said I. "I believe, if we remain inconspicuous, we should be able to make our way to some other, more suitable exit."

"How many men are out there?" Watson asked.

"Ten that I could see."

"It doesn't sound like it will be so simple."

"No, but just remain quiet and out of the way…and especially out of sight." I opened the door again, peering out with utmost care. "It seems like an apt time to go out…Come, Watson."

* * *

_**WATSON**_**:**

Holmes opened the door further silently and slipped out first, motioning for me to follow after he saw that it was clear for the moment. Apparently Hughes's men were comfortable with his facing us alone; they hadn't seemed to give even a second thought to how long it was taking. It seemed as if their conversations were as low and vulgar as they were the last time I had listened months ago, tied in Hughes's rich house. How different the setting was now! The surroundings, though in difference with Hughes's comfortable, lavish, and spoilt nature, seemed to fit the crude henchmen much better.

I followed Holmes's lithe form around bends and corners, again reminded of a jungle cat as it weaves silently and searchingly through the forest. Once we hid behind a plant as one of Hughes's men turned to pour himself a drink, but after he turned back to face his comrades we continued. We managed to slip past all of them, unnoticed (a bit of a miracle that I was extremely grateful for) and found ourselves soon in the kitchen. It was empty, save for a lone rat that scurried across the floor out of the way of our feet, and quite dirty. In the back there was a lone door, the white paint peeling off it in places from neglect. It seemed ideal.

Holmes was over to it in three long, silent strides and turned the handle. Locked. In an instant he whipped out the same piece of metal that he had used to unlock the attic door and began to insert it into the key hole, but the sound of a person clearing their throat behind us made my heart nearly stop.

We both turned to see a man standing behind us, a revolver in his hand. He was standing as tall as his slightly short stature would allow, and was watching us warily with hazel eyes.

"Mr. Holmes…Dr. Watson…leaving so soon?" he said with a smirk. His pleased expression vanished in an instant. "Where is Mr. Hughes?"

"I'm afraid your boss is no longer with us." said Holmes calmly.

The little man's brow furrowed.

"So he's dead, then? How'd you manage that?"

"He fell from the roof during our fight."

"Oh?" the man said, tilting his head slightly and looking at my friend in an amused manner. "So you fought him? That explains your sorry condition, then. How'd you manage to lure him into that one?"

"Your late employer greatly underestimated his chances with us."

"Ah. He was always just a little arrogant." Hazel eyes flashed. "You did me a nice little favour there, Mr. Holmes. He wasn't paying as well as he used to."

"And now," said my friend, "you may step into his shoes and make everything right."

The little man smirked.

"It will take a while to rebuild the organisation to what it _was_, but I hardly think I'll have too much difficulty with it. You seem to know my records very well, Mr. Holmes."

"I do, Mr. Smith," said Holmes knowingly. "Better than even the police know you. Of course I studied the career of Jackson Hughes's right-hand man closely to make sure he saw gaol, but you were very clever and had guarded yourself even more closely than Hughes. I found plenty of clues against you, but nothing that would hold up in a tight British court."

"Of course. If Mr. Hughes slipped up, I didn't want to go down _with_ him. But I didn't think the whole gang would fall through as it did….That would be _your _fault." A scowl came to Smith's sallow face as he straightened his aim and tightened his hold on the trigger.

"Oh, come now, Smith. You're just going to murder us?" Holmes asked.

"What else have I to do? I cannot let you go, or else you'll bring the coppers on us, and we can't have that."

"Your record in the law's eyes is nearly blameless," Holmes shifted slightly. "Murder is too messy for you. You surprise me, Smith."

As my friend shifted again, I realised he was trying to tell me something.

"You're right…it is a bit beneath me. But I don't have any choice now, unfortunately. One little gun-murder shouldn't be _too _hard to clean up." A venomous smile flashed across Smith's face. "We've done it for Mr. Hughes a dozen times before."

"I don't quite think you can manage it." –another slight shift, and I then realised what he wanted— "You'll swing for sure if you do..."

As he continued with Smith, his entire demeanour shouted that it was time. I leapt forward and struck the gun from Smith's hand with my stick. As I struggled with him, trying to knock the villain senseless, Holmes snatched the pistol up from the floor and shot the lock out—a risky move, but we certainly had no time to pick locks. Not when Smith's cries would soon draw the whole house.

I was very glad that Holmes had taught me a few things about wielding a stick as I felt the impact against Smith's skull through the wood and saw the man fall to the floor, unconscious. Holmes pushed the door open and before I could even utter a word of protest, Holmes slipped the arm of the side of my injury over his shoulder and we began to run.

"Holmes!" I gasped in surprise. "You can't do this! I will be fine, go on your own!"

I saw the agony breaking through my friend's stolid mask.

"You have an injured…foot, Watson." he gasped, seeming to choke over his words. "You are in no shape to run."

I heard the shouts and heavy footfalls of pursuers behind us as we dashed through the backstreets, desperately seeking some place of refuge. I was certain the trick we had used before with the public house would _not_ work this time.

The quick, strained, agonised gasps of pain my friend gave as he ran drove to my very heart. He was worsening his injuries and putting himself through such terrible pain just to help me along! I tried to assist him by using my stick, but I do not think that it helped much.

"A…c-cab…or…a police station…" Holmes panted harshly, "…we must find…something."

I wanted to tell him to conserve his breath, but I was almost breathless myself. I grew deathly afraid of our recapture; they would waste no time in killing us. We could not find just one constable for help, because that would offer no protection. Holmes was right: we would need to find more, and do it before they caught up with us.

Our only defence at this point was Smith's revolver, which had five bullets in it at most. That would not do very well against a group of ten men or more all with fully-loaded pistols. But I had to remain strong. I could not falter now. I only hoped that we could find help. I knew that Holmes had some knowledge of Paris, but I doubted if he could locate a police station from memory. I wished that he still had his police whistle, but I knew Hughes's men had taken it in their search.

I was growing tired, and I could see that Holmes was clearly exhausted. Things were looking bleak for us as we blindly ran through the back alleys of the great French city. Finally, Holmes gave a cry of relief.

"Ha!!" he gasped. "Just ahead, Watson!!"

My eyes followed his, and before us I saw a station for the Parisian Police. I nearly cried aloud to God with my absolute joy and relief.

My heart leapt into my mouth as shots rang out from behind us—obviously the blackguards did not want us to inform the law of their presence. I was thankful that not only were we a moving target, but the men had obviously been drinking some, as the bullets struck to our left and right. Perhaps our fortune would last and they would continue to miss.

We stumbled up the steps of the station and Holmes sat his hand upon the heavy door—a bullet struck, just above his middle finger. He had no time to be astonished, however, and slung the door open and ushered me inside. I stepped forward quickly after entering, leaning heavily upon my stick, and Holmes slammed the door behind us.

"Les hommes… qui travaillent… pour Jackson Hughes…" he breathed as he stepped forward, and collapsed on the floor.

"HOLMES!!" I gasped, falling to my knees at his side and wincing at the pain in my ankle.

My friend was barely conscious, his face contorted with pain. My medical instincts took over and I began to treat my friend as he lay in the floor. His coughs and gasps aroused my suspicions, and as I ran my hands carefully along his thin ribcage in search of fractures I found two broken ribs. He broke into a much heavier fit of coughing and writhed in pain, and as I tried to calm him two constables and a sergeant came over, concern and question written clearly upon their faces.

"Qu'arrive-t-il ici?" the sergeant asked. He spoke quickly, but I understood well enough what he asked.

"Er…" I muttered, trying to remember what to say. It didn't help my concentration that Holmes was muttering something incoherently. "Mon ami et me suis échappé des hommes de Jackson Hughes. Ils nous suivent. Ils ont des fusils. Nous avons des blessures."

The sergeant's brow furrowed, looking a bit confused. I realised that my French was hardly perfect, but it would be understandable.

"Jackson Hughes? L'homme voulu par la police?"

"Oui," I replied, very glad that they knew who I was talking about.

The sergeant's eyes widened. He turned to the constables beside him.

"Vous! Allez, amener quinze hommes. Dépêchez!" he barked. He then turned toward me. "Où ils sont?"

I sighed heavily as my mind raced to remember the exact location of the building we had just fled from. I would have to be precise if the official force was to arrive before the villains could take flight and possibly be out of the law's reach for ever. Holmes coughed and tried to sit up with a gasp of fresh pain, and I caught him to make sure that he did not fall back and jar himself. I could tell that he was feeling the pain more intensely now that the thrill of the escape was wearing off. His breaths were quick but shallow, and I could tell that he was trying to speak.

With an effort, he gasped out something—it was in French, but I could not understand. He looked at the sergeant and repeated it again, more slowly, and the policeman's furrowed brow unwrinkled as he understood.

"Oui, monsieur!" He turned to a constable behind him, shouting for a police doctor to assist us, and marched off.

Holmes relaxed in my arms, though he was still quite tense.

"They'll get them, Holmes," I reassured him. "Just rest for now."

Holmes's thin face turned to me, and I saw a brief smile flash across his pale face.

"Never leave officials unsupervised…especially foreign ones."

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**KS****: Thanks for reading! There might be a couple of errors in there...was a little too lazy to read again...XD But there are only a couple of chapters left now! Don't forget to review!**


	27. Wrapping up

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas**__**—their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Welcome to chapter twenty-seven of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. **

**I must say that this is another one of those chapters of which I am really not sure about…If I stay dissatisfied with it, I'll change it, but here it is for now. I'm sorry for keeping you waiting so long. I've been quite extremely busy. XD**

**And...I'd like to thank a translation site and my memory for the French in the chapter. Blame them if it's off. xD And thanks fo KCS and bcbdrums for doing a bit of beta-reading on an earlier version of the chapter, and more thanks to KCS who advised me on a small part or two.**

**This one starts**** off in Watson's POV.**

* * *

The police station's doctor came quickly at the sergeant's call to examine Holmes and myself. He seemed to be about my age, perhaps a trifle younger, and had light brown hair with a clean-shaven chin. His dark eyes darted over the two of us quickly, taking in our conditions.

Judging Holmes as the worse of us, he began to treat him first.

"Comment avez-vous obtenu la blessure?" he asked, sitting down his black medical bag.

I offered Holmes my handkerchief and he took it, wiping the blood from his mouth and nose with a sigh. He replied calmly to the doctor's question, answering that he had been in a fight. He then said that he would be fine for the moment, and that he should look after me instead.

"Holmes," said I, "it is _obvious_ that you are in far worse condition than I am."

"It is true," said the doctor to my surprise with good English as he deftly unbuttoned my friend's waistcoat and shirt, "You are in rather bad condition, sir. There are many bruises already…" I saw the doctor's brow furrow as he ran his hands along my friend's thin, beaten ribcage. "And I am afraid that you have one…no, two ribs broken."

"It's no wonder either, with the trouble we've had." said I. "I'm sure his nose must be broken as well."

"Brilliant deduction, Watson." Holmes muttered as my handkerchief began to turn scarlet as he continued to hold it gingerly to his nose.

The physician moved his attention for the moment to my companion's nose, checking it carefully.

"No, I do not think it is _quite_ broken…" he said, much to our relief.

The doctor looked up at a constable nearby and asked him if he would help move Holmes. My friend, who was ghastly pale from his pain, flushed in indignation at this.

"I can do perfectly well on my own." he said sharply, the corners of his thin mouth turned in a frown.

The doctor eyed him warily, his eyebrows rising.

"Are you sure, sir? You did collapse just a moment ago, after all…"

"I am _sure._" my friend replied. He held his arm up for me to assist him to his feet, which I did without hesitation. He was soon on his feet, and after a moment of pallor Holmes looked steady enough to walk on his own.

"Right this way," said the doctor. "To the back."

We began to follow, I limping slowly along after them with the assistance of my stick, but a constable soon stopped me.

"Monsieur," he began in very rough but passable English, "Where did you get the stick?"

"From the attic of Hughes's hideaway," I replied, slightly surprised at the question.

"Then I will need to posses it," the constable said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"For evidence. I must take it."

"Oh. But, what will I do? My ankle is injured."

"Ah, well…we can get you another." The constable shouted to another, who in turn shouted in reply, and soon I was supplied with another stick and was able to go in the direction that my friend and the doctor had gone moments before.

When I managed to find the right room and entered, the police doctor was well into his treatment of my companion, who was lying on a stiff-looking cot.

He was currently finishing wrapping Holmes's thin chest tightly in bandages; the blood that had been on his face was now cleaned away, and his battered knuckles had been attended to. The doctor stood and looked at me with an expression that was a good deal more amiable than the usual police surgeon's stiff, professional demeanour.

"Your friend will be fine with time," said he, wiping his hands with a small towel, "though I'm afraid that, along with his other injuries, he is suffering from a bit of exhaustion."

"That is not surprising," I said tiredly, betraying my own weariness.

"Now, doctor," Holmes began, "I recommend that you see to Watson's injuries. I was not the only one abused at the hands of Jackson Hughes."

"So I see. Sit down, Dr. Watson," the doctor said, gesturing toward another cot.

I sat down and stretched out my sore leg. I had been right about the cot: It _was_ stiff; it even made the ones I had slept on in the military seem good in comparison.

The French doctor began looking over my injuries thoroughly, though I knew well what was wrong with me. The bruises from Hughes's attack upon me were quite tender now, and were of a particularly nasty colour. I was also quite mentally and physically worn from our ordeal, but the worst of it all was my ankle. I flinched, holding back a cry as the excruciating pain flared through it at his touch.

"It's quite a bad sprain…" he said, pulling out his bandages again to wrap my injury.

As he began his task of tightly binding the ankle with the long dressing, a policeman entered the room. I recognised him immediately as the same that had spoken to me earlier about my stick. He was a broad, stout fellow with a thick moustache and side-whiskers, and an even thicker voice.

"Messieurs…" he began after clearing his voice a few times, "I came to say that it would be safer if you stayed here to-night. That is, until we know we have M. Hughes's men all captured and away. A few of them ran from the house. We are still working on it…"

My friend was busy rubbing the bridge of his sore nose and mixing a pain reliever the doctor had given him into a glass of water, so I replied for both of us.

"That seems fine, constable," I said.

"Make sure that not a single man escapes your dragnet," Holmes added before taking his draught. "It is of vital importance."

"Of course, monsieur. We are getting the finest men on it from all over Paris. Now, if you will pardon me."

The constable exited the room, and Holmes sat the drained glass on the small table beside his cot and carefully settled himself onto his back. I expected him to give some dry remark on the competence of officials—or, rather, the lack of it—but instead he said nothing and drew the small provided blanket up to his chest.

The doctor finished binding my ankle and stood, drawing a small packet from his black bag and holding it out for me.

"A pain reliever," said he, "to ease the ache. You can take it just as your friend took his."

"No, thank you." I said with a wave of my hand.

The police doctor cocked an eyebrow at me, but said nothing as he placed it on the table next to the second water glass in case I should want it for later. He took up his bag and walked to the door, but turned to face us before he left.

"If you need anything, do not hesitate to call, though I fear it will be a long night." He looked at both of us with the distantly analysing eyes I had seen in so many of my medical comrades who had seen too much. "If they were cruel enough to do this to the two of you, then I expect they will not go down without a fierce struggle. Good night, gentlemen."

The door shut behind the physician, and I settled down onto the pillow with a long, satisfied sigh. I looked over at Holmes, who was lying still and staring up at the ceiling with impassive, contemplative eyes. He was silent for a moment as he waded through his deep thoughts. Finally he physically roused himself from his reverie and turned his head toward me.

"Get some rest, Watson," he said. "I expect a busy day to-morrow."

"I hope it won't be _too_ busy," I replied, trying to force the authority of a medical man into my voice through the exhaustion. "You should not be too active, and neither should I for that matter."

My friend smiled slightly.

"Not too active. Not like it has been." He paused a moment. "Good night, Watson."

"Good night, Holmes."

* * *

When I awoke late the next morning I saw, to my surprise, that Holmes was still lying on his cot. He had apparently not moved much since the night before, and was watching me.

In the light of the forenoon sun that fell through the window I could see more clearly the bruises and swellings that mottled his pale skin.

At least he looked more rested.

"Oh good, you're awake." said my friend with the light of a smile in his grey eyes.

I stretched as I sat up, yawning. After an actually restful slumber I was aware that I was much more sore than I had initially thought.

"Mm, indeed," I replied. "I should like to sleep _longer…_"

"I want to go see how the police are doing." said Holmes. "Would you care to join me?"

"You really should rest, Holmes," said I. "You don't want to exhaust or harm yourself further, do you?"

"I shall be fine if you come along, my dear Watson." Holmes replied, still seemingly in a light mood. "I would just like to see what the official force is doing with Hughes's men."

"You should _not_ be up, Holmes," I said more firmly.

A frown touched my companion's bruised face.

"It really is necessary for me to see how they are faring." he said tightly.

I began to wonder why he hadn't gone out on his own, but I then realised that he wasn't just asking me to come along with him, he was asking me in his own way to help him to his feet. He did not want to admit that he was having difficulties. I sighed with resignation and stood, using the new cane the police had given me to walk to his side.

"All right," I said, stooping to help him, "but do not overwork yourself."

Holmes's pale face flushed a light pink with embarrassment at having to be helped up, but he looked at me with a taut smile as he swung his long legs from the side of the bed.

"Me, overwork myself? Impossible."

* * *

Holmes was hardly as sedentary as I would have liked him to be. He would not sit down and had, so far, busied himself speaking with the sergeant from last night, as well as several other policemen.

He had managed to get them to have our belongings from both hotels and the house in which Hughes and his men had held us captive brought to us, and I was very glad to again have my revolver in my pocket, even if the danger was over. It went without saying that I was grateful for a clean change of clothes, and I was most grateful to have my note-book again, for it gave me something to do as my friend did far more than a man in his condition should be _able_ to do.

I was busy putting down as vividly as I could the details I could remember of our adventure thus far when I heard a thickly-accented, vaguely familiar voice nearby:

"Doctor…Watson, I believe?"

I looked up to see Inspector Achard standing before me, his hands clasped firmly behind his thin back as usual and his sharp eyes scrutinising every inch of me.

"Yes?" said I.

"Your friend M. Holmes is here?"

"Indeed," I replied, "Though I'm not sure where he has gone…"

I was a bit surprised. I had been concentrating so heavily on my writing in the midst of the police-station bustle that, as I looked up, I realised that Holmes was no longer in sight. I had almost stood to look for him when I saw his tall figure emerging from a door on the other side of the room. He was moving slowly from his injuries, though he was doing an admirable job of hiding it.

"Ah, here he is." I said as my companion approached. "Where were you, Holmes?"

"Examining Hughes's body," he replied simply. He was speaking rather quietly, not taking in too much breath at a time. I wished he would go back to his cot and lie down.

Inspector Achard raised a black eyebrow.

"Why…were you examining his body?" he asked.

"I wanted to see what sort of damage I inflicted before he fell," my friend replied with a smirk. "I also had to demonstrate for the police surgeons that it was, indeed, _my_ fists that caused the bruising. They did not believe it was me."

"I see."

"You have come about the Hughes case?" my friend asked.

"No," said the inspector, "Not necessarily the Hughes case; I will deal with that once his body and men are completely documented—though I have received a message this morning from Scotland Yard stating they are sending men. I am here, M. Holmes, about the case concerning M. Bourgeois and M. Leclair."

"Ah, yes," said Holmes, "M. Bourgeois is now in the hands of the police, no doubt?"

"Yes, we have him. He turned himself in a day after Leclair had been captured, saying that you had advised him to do so."

"Indeed, I did."

"You knew then what had happened? All of it?"

"It was all a matter of simple deductions, Inspector. All I had left to do was locate either M. Leclair or Bourgeois. Finding both was just a matter of searching the public houses for information. You know my results."

"Well, M. Bourgeois has been asking for you."

"Yes, I said that I would clarify the points of the case to you for his sake."

My friend's face was whiter than usual; though his expression was perfectly calm, I who knew him so well could see in his eyes that he had overexerted himself.

"Then you must come with me to the police headquarters, M. Holmes."

"Holmes," I interrupted, "You really must rest."

"I can rest in the cab, Watson." Holmes said with a wave of his hand.

I sighed as I again got to my feet, leaning heavily upon my stick. I could tell there would be no dissuading him from going. It was just as well, I supposed.

"But what about our belongings, Holmes?" I asked.

"We shall send for them again later. Come, Watson! Inspector, I shall tell you the finer points on the way."

We were soon on our way to the Paris police headquarters in the cab Inspector Achard had come in, and Holmes had quickly settled into detailing the fine points of the case to the French detective. I listened at first, curious, but soon my thoughts were taken elsewhere, for my mind was tired with our ordeal. I was absentmindedly watching the city go by when I was drawn out of my reverie by a harsh bump in the road. I was jostled violently and my elbow accidentally stabbed into Holmes's midsection, drawing a hiss of pain from him.

"Holmes!" I gasped. "My dear fellow, I'm so sorry!"

Holmes held up his hand as he quickly regained his composure, his lips tight from the pain.

"It's quite all right, Watson. No harm done."

I watched my friend for a moment more as he resumed his conversation with the inspector, feeling mixed emotions of guilt and relief. I _had_ hurt him, though obviously not severely. I would have to be more aware of the roads for a while.

I sighed softly. He would not be able to take a case for quite a long time to come, having two broken ribs, and I would have to watch him carefully. I did not look forward to having to deal with his ennui during that time, for it was then that the dreaded cocaine beckoned, and times where he had been unable to work in the past such as this had always been torture for both of us.

It took about forty-five minutes to reach the police station, and we disembarked quickly.

"M. Holmes," Inspector Achard continued as we walked toward the headquarters' entrance, "I must say that M. Leclair is a bit nastier than the last time I dealt with him. But if what you say is true of his jealousy toward M. Bourgeois over Madame Bourgeois, which I have no doubt of, then it goes far in explaining very much. It was all a set up."

"Precisely so, Inspector. Leclair's crimes had not yet been traced back to him, so he felt that he could involve M. Bourgeois in the crime and get away with no consequences, thus being free to have Madame Bourgeois all to himself." said Holmes as we entered.

"And then the great blow to him came unexpectedly when we found enough evidence to get him on the crime, but nothing on M. Bourgeois. But, of the old crimes, you managed to discern it was he by only the news! It is magnificent, at the least. I think, monsieur—"

"Mr. Holmes!" called a familiar voice, interrupting the conversation with the ascetic French inspector.

We all turned to see Inspectors Gregson and Bradstreet standing at the front desk with a plainclothes official of the French police, and it was Gregson that was now turned towards us and calling.

"Ah!" Holmes cried in recognition. "The Yard finally comes when the work is done."

Gregson did looked less than amused, but Bradstreet gave a slight chuckle at my friend's remark.

"Good Lord, Mr. Holmes, were you run over by a cab?" Bradstreet asked as he saw Holmes's condition.

"No," Holmes replied, "But I think that I experienced something very similar to it."

"Well, we're glad to see you're alive, at least," Gregson said with a step forward. "What with it being Jackson Hughes and all, we were starting to get rather nervous. My colleague Mr. Lestrade wanted to come, since he was the arresting officer in the last instance," Gregson paused for a smile, "but he was too busy to make it, so I came in his stead."

"I'm glad that one of the Yard's finest managed to make it," Holmes said dryly.

"We've got all the men nearly, Mr. Holmes," Gregson continued, "There might not even be any left, but the men are continuing to scour the city as per our orders."

"We'll have them off to England for another trial soon enough," Bradstreet put in. "Those who didn't swing last time but for luck surely will this time, and they'll all see gaol for a long time for sure."

"Excellent." Holmes fumbled in his pockets, but a look of remembrance passed over his face. "I don't suppose either of you could spare a cigarette? I'm afraid mine were stolen."

* * *

_**HOLMES**_**:**

I spent the majority of my afternoon and evening in giving particulars to the officials of two separate countries on two separate cases, and Watson—despite the pain of his own injury—never left my side. I had ensured that the security around Hughes's men would be as tight as it ought to be, and I had provided enough information to the French police that I would not have to worry about appearing at either M. Bourgeois or Leclair's trials, and Madame Bourgeois would not be overlooked. By the time we had arrived at the hotel the police had taken our belongings to, my side felt as if it was on fire.

"Are you all right, Holmes?" Watson asked, seeing my face in the light for the first time in a while after our cab ride. Undoubtedly I did not look well.

"I'm fine, Watson," I replied.

"Do you need anything for the pain?"

"Of course not."

"I'm getting you something anyway," my friend said as he limped over to his medical bag, which had been placed upon the dining-table.

"Oh, Holmes, it would seem you already have some telegrams."

"Telegrams?"

I stepped over to the table and surely enough, three separate envelopes lay upon the white cloth.

"I suppose one of our good inspectors had all messages forwarded to this address…" I remarked as I slit open the first.

I suppose Watson thought me mad as I burst into a laughing fit.

Quickly after the laughing had subsided into a fit of coughing, which racked my broken bones, but even when I had ceased to cough I still had not rid myself of mirth.

"Holmes! My goodness, man! What was in that letter…!?" my staunch medical friend asked with a flushed face.

"You do not seem to be a believer that laughter is the best form of medicine, my dear Watson," said I, managing to grimace and smile at the same time as I held my pained side. "It is from Mycroft, but it isn't to me at all. Here, you may see it."

I passed the slip of paper to him, and he began to read aloud. I watched as his smile grew as his eyes sped across the words and heard as his voice strained with suppressed laughter.

"DOCTOR WATSON STOP INFORM ME WHEN SHERLOCK REGAINS FULL HEALTH STOP I INTEND TO KILL HIM MYSELF IF YOU HAVE NOT DONE SO ALREADY STOP –MYCROFT"

We both certainly laughed until we hurt.

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**KS****: Mm, thanks for reading! I hope it was a good chapter. Just one more to go! I also have a new poll on my profile to do with **_**Brother**_** and **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, so go check it out! **

**Review, please!**


	28. Epilogue

_**On the Streets of Paris**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas**__**—their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**A/N****: I'm not entirely sure of the quality of this chapter, either, because it was largely written as I was very, **_**very**_** tired. XD If it has errors and such, I'll touch them up.**

**KS: ****Welcome to the twenty-eighth and final chapter of **_**On the Streets of Paris**_**, the sequel to **_**Brother**_**. I know I haven't been entirely consistent in this, nor have I been regular with updates, and I apologise greatly for both shortcomings. But, I have tried. I have had many unexpected things happen in life as I wrote it, and that interfered with my writing greatly (which is further proven by a lack of updates on other fics). But now, **_**On the Streets of Paris**_** draws to a close. It's been a bumpy ride, and now it is at an end. I do hope you have enjoyed it. **

**It is**** in Watson's POV.**

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_**London, Nine Days Later**_

Holmes tossed his hat onto the rack as soon as he stepped into the sitting-room and walked over to his favourite chair, sitting himself down carefully with a long sigh.

"Mycroft didn't murder you, I see," I said, pointedly imitating the way he usually made observations about me when I entered the room.

"My dear brother decided unsurprisingly that it would take more effort than it was worth," Holmes said dryly, taking up his pipe.

I laughed softly, looking up from my newspaper to see my companion's face.

"A smart move. Perhaps the week's wait softened his anger?"

Holmes smiled as he held the black stem of his pipe between his teeth, holding a match in the bowl to light his acrid tobacco.

"Mm, I think not. But it is hard to raise one's voice in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club and not get thrown out." Holmes tossed the used match into the grate as I laughed, and as he smoked he studied me through the thick haze that spouted from his pipe.

"How is your recovery progressing?" he asked.

"Well enough," said I, setting my paper down and glancing at my ankle. It was still quite sore, and I certainly could not do very much walking on it. "It will be a long time, though, before I can do much of anything."

Holmes nodded understandingly and leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable. I now was his sole doctor, replacing his bandages, checking his lungs for infection, and making sure he did not stress his wounds. Though he was following my orders not to be going out and exerting himself, Holmes had almost been like a wild tiger in a cage, restless and uncomfortable, especially since he had no cases on hand to distract his formidable mind from the pain.

I had given him permission to go and visit his brother to-day, his first real excursion since we had returned from Paris, and I could tell it had done him a world of good.

Our comfortable silence was soon interrupted by a ring of the bell, and I sighed heavily. No doubt it was a client, for Mrs. Hudson very seldom had visitors, and I knew that Holmes would be very unlikely to turn them away. I saw a light of glee flash in my friend's steely eyes as he stood to his feet.

"I believe that is for us, my dear Watson," he said, listening. "Hum, yes, a light step upon the stair. A woman, if I am not mistaken."

I put aside my paper and took up my note-book from my desk, still hoping that whoever it was brought a case my friend could simply solve from his armchair. There was a small, nervous rap on our door, and Holmes opened it for the visitor. As he saw who it was, his face fell somewhat, and his brow furrowed lightly.

"Miss Scott," said he, "I—"

My friend was cut off by an abrupt attack from the female visitor, which took the form of a very strong, grateful embrace.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, thank you! Thank you so very, very much!!" she cried. "Oh…how…how will I repay you? Name your price! I am not rich, but I will try!"

Holmes's face had flushed a bright scarlet by this time, and I watched as he fidgeted uncomfortably in her hold. Undoubtedly some of his discomfort came from the fact that the young lady was very close to putting pressure upon his broken ribs, but I also had no doubt that it was more his distaste for such displays that had coloured him so.

"I am sure you are thankful, Miss Scott," said he, pushing her away as politely as he could, "but I need no recompense for your case. I have had more than enough from it. My work was enough of a reward this time."

"But surely, I can do something…A kiss, even! I am unspeakably grateful."

A grimace touched my friend's countenance, but the girl missed it entirely in her gratitude.

"No, thank you," he said, "that will not be necessary. It was worth taking on for just the purpose of ridding society of him."

"And for that, the world thanks you I'm sure, Mr. Holmes."

"Perhaps. Good-bye, Miss Scott."

"Good-bye, Mr. Holmes."

The girl left much in the same way she had came, quickly, and my friend closed the door behind her. He said nothing as he stepped back across the room and settled into his favourite armchair once again. The silence continued as he resumed smoking his pipe and finally, I asked the question that was so obviously on my mind.

"Well, who was she?"

"Hm? Oh, that was Miss Abigail Scott, the woman who came to me about the late Mr. Jackson Hughes in the first place."

There was another short silence.

"More than enough from the case, indeed…" I snorted softly as I remembered his words.

Holmes leaned back in his chair and watched the blue smoke from his pipe as it drifted up slowly toward the ceiling, dancing and wavering at any slight draught.

"As I said, Watson," he began thoughtfully, "It was most certainly worth the troubles to rid the world of Jackson Hughes once and for all. Surely you agree?"

"Of course."

"Hughes was merciless. Men and rivers both become crooked by the same means, Watson: by taking the path of least resistance."

And so ended our extraordinary experiences concerning the villain Jackson Hughes. Hughes's body was laid to rest in America in the city of New York, and the tiny remains of his criminal empire crumbled like ancient stone as the men were either hung or sent to gaol. Holmes and I both recovered quickly from our injuries, and my dear friend was back in a matter of months to the brain-work that he cherished so much.

Those few, brief encounters with the singularly devilish Jackson Hughes may not have been enough to make a deep impression on Holmes, but I for one shall never forget his coldness and the vile pleasure he derived from other's pain. I did not want to meet such a man again, but I knew that if Holmes ever found himself against another opponent so wicked, I would be right at his side, no matter what the cost.

_**Fin**_

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**KS****: And that is it! Thank you very, very much for reading. Please don't forget to leave a review! **


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